Under-sense

 

— this whole city and no one: this nothing

      a sunken thing

      behind the ribcage’s loose rungs

 

— the windmill’s vanes: the mind's eye

      mind-set hard-set

      against the under-sense

 

— the daily weight and tenacity: failed reasoning

      in thickets

      absolutely unsalable

 

— the rain falling all ways and means: then had 

      enough of a door


Final Disorder

 

Sheets stripped of untranslatable scent.

The mattress, a great eye

 

staring. My own hand strangely bony.

The sun barricades with its white rungs

 

window-caves waged for your return.

An abacist, I count each hour’s odd integers.

 

The room fills with certainty, odorless & sharp.

I copy this from the same memory of abandonment.

 

Its shape, dark & barbaric

looks me in the face.

 

I have gone about making sentiment ample & sacred.

I eat your distance. 


________________________________________


Jami Macarty lives on the coast of British Columbia and in the desert of Arizona. When a desert dweller, she teaches therapeutic movement and skeletal alignment; when in the rainforest she teaches poetry Simon Fraser University. Her poems have appeared in various American and Canadian periodicals, including Cimarron Review, Contemporary Verse 2, Drunken Boat, Golden Handcuffs Review, Interim, The Maynard, and Volt, among other necessary journals.