Agencies
Services
HARROW
Christina Pugh
HARROW
His poems loop in sky-blue ink--magic marker: two variants I
fixed to my wall as a memo about love, and mud, and the
gutters of a house burned out, rendering that love now
legible as smoke. I liked how he’d written it twice, transposing
two lines, so I put it in my pipe twice, much as I’d liked
to transpose my own prone body in my mind’s microscopic
eye, nights I’d turn between two points of a gable, forking small paths
from a very local change in perspective—lake effect or cloud
bank quick with teleology; and though I once sat still above a sea
of piano keys when asked (quite young) to transpose a minuet,
I’d also made a wish to live on the floor and on the ceiling
at once. And that’s when it started, the razing of my house.