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| Renée Stout |
Canto 1
Make chili in a crockpot like a room &
boarder.
When you fabricate an automaton
to rinse clothes, the creature
should be project driven,
obsess with staying relative,
spy on others having fun,
things that are alive
— think diorama of a family picnic —
spring wound to what you're programmed to believe.
Contraption rejected,
your recipe’s been found
under broiling sun, biting insects
gamboling o'er the wound.
Even the cat’s
misguided flounder
shoves the feather beyond its
theoretical grasp,
lacks true intensity,
focuses on carving a path
conceived by a French community,
a comeback mechanical’s
plausible ring of intensity.
After days battered & huddled
you'll find yourself loose
in the middle
of leaded vinings in rippled glass,
rounding the corners of sense.
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