Grotesquerie
       

Mid-June: this sky a Schuyler sky,
scalloping off toward every horizon, a blue I lack
the name for, like a shirt

I admired with stays
instead of buttons. But on this spot what
had been a wild brown rabbit.

It wasn't supposed to come to this.
I wanted to talk about the light, not what
it catches on, the mutability of meat. A spazz

of fritillaries: each small one the color of resin
& tobacco, spatter with a black like creosote.
These tiny busy wings: such light planes: like mica, troubling

the black-ticked fur & cotton beige gut. Who knew
brown against brown might offer surprise.
They reconverge upon the body: the skittish

& the dead. This is what the light provides us:
flit, then realight: proboscises:
drilling, rising, drilling.

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Copyright © 2014 RJ Gibson All rights reserved
from Court Green
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission