If you eat these petals, before retiring Through properties as yet unbeknownst to modern science Sight will be restored Mrs A Clarke of Winnipeg saw meteors on A new horizon, she thought the chariots had arrived Short-sightedness completely cured Mr Robertson of Manitoba saw, the grain of skin Like an isthmus in his child’s hand Held firmly to cross highway 26, sick with salted ice From the woods near St François Xavier Home where the fire was the orange Of his mother’s tongue, strangely bright and black With summer’s laughing frozen fruit Spilled accidentally in the kitchen sink Dishes high as Babylon The far-sought malaise, gone in the panchromatic Wilderness of criss-crossing lines Sarah Clawson, aged fifty-four, of Mobile, Alabama Insomniac and half-prayered with macular degeneration Reversed the waterfall rush, the flowers broken Steeped, in a kind of tea, with sugar cubes She could still get, because the factory was old fashioned A bitter taste, but despite the door quite crooked Swinging freely in the sycamore breeze I guess, praise be, the frame’s bent too, she writes In her thank-you note, vision now restored The distortions in her peripheries Where the dead once talked Almost completely smooth, because With a firm but gentle hand, the jags of fractures spreading She crushed to sintered aromats These falling petals
