No Help for That | Jackie Clark

Argyle and wool and other warm things,
moving forward through walls,
through sounds, through what does not belong
to me. Transposing filtered grips,
ceramic guards, manes smooth and unremarkable.
A substance collector on some other moon,
the specifics are cold and invisible.
A walking rubber band returning and returning.
Streets, a fist, square shoulders, only able
to imagine the place that came before.
Auditioning with levers and supplies
you have looked upon over and over
in your nighttime room and compared
against lists you’ve been keeping,
lists that you’ve carried in back pockets,
in folded squares close to your chest.
Instructional biologies, a web characterized by collars
and trains that run from the center to a different
theory, expectation not withstanding.