Wooden Houses by Lisa Robertson

A work called wooden houses begins
It explores different degrees of fear.

And it is curious that you did not chose a secular image
Augustine’s own task was equally impossible.

And we said a boat would come and take you to Venice
And you are a law of language.

And my mouth took part
And we fed you morphine mixed with honey.

And you are a rare modern painting in the grand salon
And you are a wall of earth.

And you are an ideological calm
And you are flung out to search.

And you are framed only by the perspectival rigors of masonry
And you are not a neutral instrument.

And you are pornographic
And you are the imagination of society as a tree.


click here to read the rest of the poem

by Lisa Robertson, published in Jacket


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