JERRY #7

Hannah Brooks-Motl


from VARIETIES OF ILLINOIS

A lake in the pasture unfilled. A flock of twigs
Gradual versus instantaneous work

Round the edge a collection of
Lit up compulsory limbs

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What is actual, potential, crabbed
Tracing the marginal outline
To hear a voice at a certain interval

One’s merits, an earring, a mailbox
The geraniums
Their apperceiving mass too

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At home with wet hair, some fields
Are narrow fields
Potential conditions
A sneaky or pervious margin
And one’s marriage: a fridge and nice face

Some like the light
Blasting open, their center stand-offish
Or actually fevered
Though not in this kitchen

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When you convert it will be a stream or pencil
The light barely described
Accessible to introspection
Your body, in such event
Self-forgetful and kindly
An expansive affection, apperceiving
A wild cat
In human shape

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I just couldn’t ever know or feel—the getting sick with it, the tending there. A hole in the life or just you, a real shape, as a carrot is real, the expansion. A child at its barbwire. That star barn. I drink a coke, having pulled the words long enough. The cars will line up, but god appears as mere adequate excitement, a gulch in the timber tonight.

A hole in the life of just you.

Admiring shudder:
Equanimity, Resignation
Fortitude, Patience
“My life will be what it is able to be”


Get in my power, now git
Illinois

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Dig up
The creepy thorn tree

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My brother in poverty, neither being nor having, a push which desires, will want for its Xbox, to sit in a stall and say hand me my box, be given an X for his head.

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Not purpose but intentness, a gable open to silage
Or deep hacks of one’s name
A turning of corners by means of our hurt
The angle an obtuse angle

There is a bird that lives
In that hole


His movement was made by my hurt
By my pain he made it
Not a right angle

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Bee on the glass and praying a phrase
Grinding the yellow sticks
This is the living half
Demonstrated

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“Something is always transacting”

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Toaster, onion
Anything larger will do
In the morning everything real must claim
A trans-marginal door
Insistently local
An effect
Through our hair

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A white tree or farm
These are yellow shapes
If the will could sound, then a pristine field would call out to the
lamb
The boat of the lamb
Like the figure who reads on the physical plane
Black blocks, are they clouds going forward
To a positive content
Which is big, how a thigh
Or pistachio table
Setting wood against fire
Creates a repetitive turn