XI
Emily Dickinson                                                         Wait awhile, E., are her
                              poems comic? white and purple, E.?
                              Take one word in one poem—take “hazel”  
Franklin                  in no. 739, “hazel” witnesses,
                              nor “blue” would have done, nor “brown” and it is shocking
                              when it comes, it is an affront, a heavenly
                              affront, to speak of eyes like that, or take
no. 903                  the lark, and cut him open to find his song,
                              that’s the literal option, sorting through the
                              guts, or call it the stubborn, a clown say
                              cutting open a crow and looking up at
                              the bleachers and scratching his head with a crimson knife,
                              rubber, of course, and asking for help, maybe finally
Moses                    playing a tune on his baby fiddle, then M.
God, Abraham        talking to G., or A. to G., a worm
                              and a robin, talking in Worm, of course, “oh, robin,
                              how could I look at your beak and live?” how you do
                              shake the ground with wonder, but I. is furious
                              at his own thoughts for he is not that which eats him
                              and G. is not that which eats the eater, nor will he
                              degrade himself that way.