Mary Jo Firth Gillett


Quirk of failing vision, misfire in the gray matter,
and the eye sees rain but reads ruin, the mind flailing
in a rogue wave of mismatched static gibberish,
the warring of eye and brain a skirmish, a warning
something’s amiss, error amassing, letters missing,
a wisp, a smolder ready to combust or else like mist
to quietly disperse, no longer lost in a maze of words,
letters jumbled or restrung to a lie, a lei of strange petals,
a strangle of orchid blooms about the neck—the blossoms
of a childhood orchard turned from tasty promises to
something different, fallen fruit seeping, stings
that fly on insistent wings—and so come the abrupt
slippages—from rapture to rupture, from sing to singe.

back to contents