JANE GREGORY
It is Disgusting and Imitates Truth
I recognize the tongue of the wolf
before it is in the wolf's mouth.
I am the strings by which everything
is pulled. That you lost your mind
allowed for the conjuring of a curious
head. I am so huge that when I blink,
the mist clears. Like mud
that sees itself as dust several layers
of hero to hold in the mind are water, fire.
But no ash. Things that never arrive:
the paradox as a sentence, the rope
to a swing, your head on a plate.
Heroes. If I am telling the truth
about the mud, you've seen it before.
Like everything, originally. And the array
of available meanings gives color-
sickness and that's how it is with truth
so I go lie down in the stable. I am so large
I juggle the windmills the earth
had, God had to. Cymbals,
when washed up or out to sea are silent. What
indicates the sound you make. The end
of perfection. Putrification. Ballast. Mastery
of forfeit.