No Help for That | Jackie Clark

Lightly, without a bottom:
a present, a particle, a plastic bag.
My important impression, intently columned.
Post forward in hope of response.
Vestured space immune to nothing,
approached by nothing.
No colors, no collective baggage.
Nothing to pass down to smaller hands if smaller hands are created.
Reoccurring travels passed the same street signs
because this is the only way home and all you do is return there.
Concrete carousel, a battle of tires versus will.
Instruction has moved the body and the seasons
and the way we cloak ourselves at the table.
Vantage rings over an impersonal place and everyone answers,
everyone says hello and wonders what will follow
as efficiency is brushed over our backs, the fabrication of know-how
needing to be trimmed and postured.
Inarticulateness has resulted in many losses,
many residual handshakes and partings.