S. Brook Corfman
O bright box, ripping, M. Moore wrote red flowers will not make red wine but I tried anyway, pressed them and ate them with eggs for breakfast. Counterintuitively, particularly bright colors often last longer than “regular” colors when left in the sun; it is not about intensity—there is less fading because the bright color has been prepared for the ordeal. Just because you will be ready to let something go eventually does not mean you are, yet, right now. The question is of the impact of falling emotions—if we expect (in any orientation) to go up, is going down a negative trajectory. A door left continuously ajar. The train sets off for the garden, where the voice of a shrub busy flowering is unknown to the rose. An insensitivity to nuance, a man who thinks I’m handsome. I have no summative impulse and feel, perhaps rightly, quite badly about this. As if beholden to a prosopopoeian construction. And then I received a benediction and named each thought sugar, maple, honey. I used my tongue; I tried to touch it.
S. BROOK CORFMAN is the author of Luxury, Blue Lace, chosen by Richard Siken for the Autumn House Rising Writer Prize, as well as two chapbooks: the letterpress Meteorites (DoubleCross Press) and the digital collection of performance pieces The Anima (GaussPDF).