No Help for That | Jackie Clark

Reduction of inking and emptying,
each day a different motion stretched.
Hands swings forward forming blush
on little cheeks and each day the glass
is cleaned and the log is lifted
a little higher than the knee, a thousand
buoyant mornings that ask the same thing.
Rendered cuff-links and paw tracks.
Altercations under building awnings
with gold poles, having finally arrived.
Careless meters, the diagram fraught
with conciliation, a constant who-done-it
brazenly rewound and rewound.
Exposition works better than remembered.
The syllable of each word, each naming.
Cherubic plastic scenes, the eyes suggesting peace.