I
am working on a specimen so pale it is like staring at snow from the
bow of a ship in fog. I lose track of things—articulation of wing,
fineness of hair—as if the moth itself disappears, but remains as an
emptiness before me. Or, from its bleakness, the subtlest distinctions
suddenly increase: the slightest shade lighter in white begins to
breathe with a starkness that’s arresting and the very idea of color
terrifies. It has snowed and the evening is blue. The herders look like
buoys, like waders the water has gotten too deep around. They’ll have
to swim in to shore. Their horses are patient. They love to be led from
their stalls. They love to sharpen their teeth on the gate. They will
stand, knees locked, for hours.
by Lisa Olstein
from her book Lost Alphabet (Copper Canyon 2009)
published on poets.org
photo by Gaëtan Bourque from flickr
Robin Reagler 