Dara Wier

Elegy

That one's wicked smile, this one's shaded eye,
too many vanishing points, that one's crooked nose,
another's complex hands, that one who laughed
so hard he cried when his wit outwitted him,
too many vanishing points, as it always did,
that one's love of the mischief of cats, too
many vanishing points, that blue shoelace,
the orange wall, a collection of wishbones,
a collection of hands, too many vanishing points,
a tone of voice with nothing left standing
in its path, how he put his fork down, where
she looked away toward when she daydreamed,
too many vanishing points, how he shambled
down the road into where sunlight intersected
shade, [. . . .] at the end of the road where meadows hide
old apple trees, bluebirds and bees, too many
vanishing points, where her hand went away from
one last time, how he looked into lies with just
the mildest rebuke, where she hid the tooth,
how he wrapped a piece of string around and around
a broken doorlatch to keep the burglars out,
too many vanishing points, the way she crossed
herself every time she spoke a wicked thought,
the way he thought he wanted to think like a trout,
too many vanishing points, this one's watchband,
another's dress hat, a blanket a child pulls
across its face.