Conjure. Rae Armantrout

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      UNQUOTE

      Take this cup away from me

      with its hints

      of ammonia and dill,

      oak or corrosion.

      Who knows, really?

      What might ammonia taste like

      to a different person?

      Roll that question

      around on your tongue.

      You’ve heard it before

      or something like it.

      The familiar is enormous!

      Red-shifted.

      I’m happy to think

      of this deep sleep—

      “the sleep of the dead”—

      as a guilty pleasure

      “I” am

      “getting away”

      “with”

      PINOCCHIO

      Strand. String.

      In this dream,

      the paths cross

      and cross again.

      They are spelling

      a real boy

      out of repetition.

      Each one

      is the one

      real boy.

      Each knows

      he must be

      wrong

      about this, but

      he can’t feel

      how

      The fish

      and the fisherman,

      the pilot,

      the princess,

      the fireman and

      the ones on fire

      TOUCHED

      More than a fistful

      of stubby green fingers

      pushing up through gravel.

      And blades, hearts, clubs

      cut fine figures too.

      Each shape particular

      and pushy.

      Each a would-be

      template,

      I say.

      Pick me.

      I’m with the deranged.

      Something’s very wrong.

      There are masks

      in offices.

      Machines run the banks

      and the power company.

      If you aren’t my mother

      or my son,

      who are you?

      And if you are,

      why don’t you know me?

      FORESIGHT

      1

      The way we gather

      at the window, pointing

      with funereal awe

      to this thing

      that isn’t one of us—

      a doe

      nibbling the lawn.

      2

      Reflections

      staggered by ripples

      at the feet

      of quaint buildings

      in paintings

      on hotel-chain walls.

      CLIP ART

      Stroking her cheek,

      I’m drawing

      mirror image arcs

      in the baby’s brain—

      closed parentheses

      left hanging.

      Our topiary space.

      PROMOTION

      Then the evening

      and the morning

      were the last day.

      But wasn’t I promoted

      after I named everything?

      In cartoons, each

      impulse

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