No Help for That | Jackie Clark

Constant limits like holes in the fence.
This silver island pretending not to notice,
covering angles & indispensable doubts.
The desert reads pages & pages of iconography,
lonely for an empty torso. Right now, an assembly
of sitting & standing & walking through doors.
We have learned how to wait, lending red
to promised compensation, inspired filaments walking
the cement like rib-shaking demonstratives, like an ache
instead of insistence or a sharpened profile in the periphery.
I don’t know what happens when you are not near me
& I don’t want to–unfinished & intent on holding true:
the strain of looking up or the rush from doorway
to doorway, the reprieve from vacancy & tented constellations.