The pool was covered by a sheath of leaves
There was Invisible again, wearing the sign
Off in the distance
was a way of placing the poplars
I said that I wanted to mean
You could stay
here as my vocabulary, o
materialize among the notes
on grapes, a clustered emphasis
the hill makes
mouth to ear or a gesture
tensing its legs
Every one has a double.
Through the ridges in the stem.
Yet not fluted.
Or the color of the bark
to be likened to a person’s eye, a rather
beautiful one’s eye because right here
the sun came in.
(and so these oval shadows on the page)
(they move when I move the page)
I don’t have any daffodils.
Is that okay?
F L O W E R
C A R T
WALK IN’S WELCOME
Celery and pears
The fire cracked from side to side—
do you remember this?
Wicker tree, hickory, my black pen—
do you remember that?
I had a nice time in the sun shine.
In the Good Will we were corrected:
the egg cup was an eye cup.
The tin pail had a thin sail
Then it was a strange boat
Talking to angels made him cheerful
Kissing his ear made her nervous
And the canvas grew Japanese
(line turned to stroke)
The wife of my father came from there
but died before I was born
What would you own
in the coin-throw
What would you keep
About the author
Lisa Fishman is the author of The Happiness Experiment (Ahsahta); the poems in this issue are from her fourth book, F L O W E R C A R T, forthcoming on Ahsahta Press. She teaches at Columbia College in Chicago.