Wishes extract water from air
And put it somewhere special.
Special to
The water
Not to you, so you don’t know
Where nor do you have access
To the special water.
You had access to it when it was in air. Did then you it so treasure?
I will cart this shovel
On my shoulder everywhere I go from now on so the hole is loved.
Into a life the
Artificial slid
A whetstone
In a riverbed.
Performance under scrutiny
Of scrutinies of naturalness.
Acting natural being less a matter than being matter, being natural
At acting at being the downy
Calmed hand heavy. Factory
Implements. Each 10,000 one is sent to the firmament’s white hole.
I remember it. I remember it.
I remember it is a memory that I’m remembering to act like is mine.
O.K. Uncle.
I give relent.
The shovel’s sharpened tip will
Slash the dry air.
Naught will come from low sky
Now, for wishes
Get asked lowly.
And yet my shovel’s burnished
Tip dulls on the dried air a wish
Leaves as its residue of having-made, unique to wish and captured
From the wishing only.
The factory is made of
Number marked down
And uncounted so to
Cushion it from wish.
I quit.
Thus
Puncture has its wish.
I relent. To you I give
This hole I dug in air
To love you through.
Logan Fry
Logan Fry is the author of Harpo Before the Opus (Omnidawn), and of poetry in Conjunctions, Lana Turner, Fence, The Rumpus, Annulet, Image, Shitwonder, and The New York Review of Books.