Mary Jo Firth Gillett

APERTURE


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.

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