LATR: Stephanie Anderson, three poems

Waked Is Not Disbelieved

Up at witchings to outhouse;
humidity screens the woods.

In the fog are fireflies or military-
issued green glowsticks at the
barnyard's edge; the blur interior

or exterior? The eye's refusal to
define. As apparition. Raising

arm to lead by touch, and a
displacement, pond-throw or
pole against vat-bound hide.

Green glow nearer at pause,
retreating as she bare-steps.

Forget the faulty eyes. Move by
viscera, nerve and frame, but
moisture seeps into an odd vertigo;

the glow swoons, saturation too
tight, wrists wobbly.

A whistle, a reeded instrument
in a covered well, and Emily
can identify it as the ridge-

bound train on 27's route.
She can tell from the tone.

Tempo

Tadpole polliwog frog.

Catching in the creek, she heard viola-strain
and clatter of keys. Like a pump organ or

salesmen at the door with encyclopedias,
which become water-stained

in the parlor. Shapes in the nightyard;
wooden lathes and welding tools.

Tadpole polliwog frog.

Times tables and other heroic efforts
of which hemlock tree climbing and garden

snakes caught in canning jars are not. June
bugs. Her straw tick and corner in

the afternoon. Sevens, eights, and twelves.
Traveling to galaxy to tadpole.

A Pale Blank of Mist

[The limits of the particular horizon visible to you]

Guardian: To watch to keep. Specter apparition.
To cover to conceal. The kite via string in hand.

Shelling peanuts along the seams. Calling, rip saw
goes with grain; cross cut against. Like chicken wire.

[Represents the sky as it appears to the eye]

The kite fastened. Guardian anticipates reversal.

[Many stars are not constant in brightness]

During my city commute, the train always
passed a new, orange brick building – level
with my gaze, in the far corner apartment,
I could catch the dark curve of grand piano.
Was there a kite?

A Merton boy retrieves me at the train: Gotcha.
Even the blind hog finds an acorn once in a while.