Rosanne Wasserman


Putting to rights to bed to watch the chandelier exploding, runoff from the massive leak
in the roofing shower down, with the special taste of water perked through walls of
ancient stone: my legacy a fridge full of wonderful stuff: chestnut flour, mesquite meal,
basilico risotto. At what point did inventory overcome invention? And will my chains
in purgatory read themselves aloud? Or is it all loam at home, pages and leaves where
unseen future grows from our embarrassment of riches?, roots not to be disturbed by
tidiness or soap, hope and despair at work breaking information down to fodder? But I
can account for the access, how quick it came, to joy: it's through this formula I've
learned, I've earned, I've given the steady promise: there will be a vow or two to renew
before dark is fallen. You don't need to hold the sail in the wind alone, don't need to
stand on shore to make it blow. Watch how the leaves roll down to the water, then skitter
across the waves: it's more like that.

© 2005 Electronic Poetry Review