Sneeze on a blank page.
Call it interruption poetry.
That stanza wasn’t going to launch
anyhow. Your ode to the anacoluthon,
punctuation releases itself
from a corral to take a brisk walk
in the windchill heavy morning.
Why? The first
and last question
to ask, knowing no one will answer
you. The silence is nothing to [pause]
You know the rest. Break it
anyway you can. It’s the sudden
exposure to bright light
reflected off snow and incurable ice.
Arousal of memory you interrupted one
too many times. Fragments
scar the walls inside
that Olin Library study carrel. You
hide from the world
inside a thesis swirl of notecards,
quoting everyone quoting Woolf
way before laptops and Google.
Metal in the stacks. An aerosol
of song before the word pandemic
took up residence in the highest
aerie, refused to leave. That view.
Live with it down here
is slang for [pause again]