From the Velocities

  Juliet Patterson       

If the Polaroid yellows in time,
not history. If the face is composed
of fourteen bones. The essence, face, the enemy,
arms. If muscle extends the wrist and abducts
the hand, without politic as our engagement.
The index finger can be extended or pointed
while others flex. If the artery is exposed
by making an incision
scattering pigeons. If the city stands on a single finger, a dirty
window. We hang something in its dark little cubes:
the track, the spur & rusty ends of space,
grease. If fingers on the bundled throats of wheat
sweep the fence line, words in a book, a shot.
If action of the muscle is therefore to throw
forearm and hand into position they naturally occupy
when placed across the chest. If our hands, likewise fall
underneath the tree, a pulse in a thumb of a map
composing field. If wind seizes the tree
& ha ha if the heart
lies obliquely in the chest,
a mind which is our being,
wrong & wrong.