Lynsey Jenkins

Things I brushed I cannot know
except in distant speech:
dressing shapes where they correspond
to doubt, bereft this paper’s reach,
...

Stupid bird, the air you tire,
waiting to be called poetry,
though one could snatch you up as easily
& call themselves not god or poet, but Gun
...

Past reaches her.
Not a saint or emblem
of well-being, that nonetheless drops,
...

The mind is a mirror.
You whet your image till it draws nearer.
You wipe with your finger till it comes clearer,
...

The stream enters with a tenderness
the object she holds, off this bank,
cracked of sure thankfulness
one could offer, over such a drink-
...

Is this what I meant: the glittering
pavements rising, the fictions
of your breath, my face
once arranged, then fleeing away
...