Annie Guthrie


		from The Selfer


Not knowing I came to find things colorful watery and kind

In absence I lawful, wary cinders find…. Unkindred,

one flower wilts on the sill when the next is opening. Naturally.

The difference between fantasy and prayer is innocence.

What if wish & love opened at the same time?

Then you would be bored, you say, even though not here.


(Thus without freedom does the populace

for something truly round, angle

Armed, wrangling " you"



What "never" in the bloom. What "ever" on dream's shelf,
in sleep, is wilting. Neither, none.

To clip bliss from its opposite: silence. Yet

on top the night's helm my howling, starless
stark Ahems, the tyrant Aha's.

Mouths around word-holds hoof and scrape
thought's stable. Only the heart's able,

beating, unmoored from port of stem,
to hold as words do, quiet ground:


If I speak I'm jarred and canned,
next winter.

Why do I have to be other than I am
if as truth I want to be the same?

Because you are not that, which only meets itself.
Autumn, mulching.


scarce is wonder,

is wonder

the light in mind that blooms

deliberation, fell into.

what are You, thing
apart from thought and breath,

mouthless, not managed -


The faithful must have found
the falling proper.