Symposium

on the morning of day two
I quivered where I’d fallen

beneath a green curtain
lit against the glass

on day three he wandered
and lit concentric paths

with soft eyes

and the syntax
of rabbits—let’s stick

to the beautiful

what part is not physical?
what part can’t be listed

with an eager mouth?

what’s between an object’s
name and its attributes

is the object—and yet

is a face made of features?
is his face even physical?

I can’t decide

if I wish to leave            my desire
in this world or take it with me

New Theory

my new theory is to make a boundary
between myself and the theory

then, between me and the boundary
to let a clouded region billow in, but to let
its shape be distinct: his face—

though the fog’s blood-filled
when I return, and I’d best
have a line for it

though I can tell the fog’s all upshot
though I admit it’s its mug I’m
holding out the window

to let a contained song bask
at the edges of the tract
but if it grow perceptible

to be emboldened to rein it in

the dusk has always been a horse in its own light

An M.F.A. candidate and Olin Fellow at Washington University in St. Louis, Cassie Donish’s poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Sixth Finch, Jellyfish, THERMOS, Forklift, Ohio, and elsewhere. She is an editor of February, an anthology, holds an M.A. in cultural geography from the University of Oregon, and hails from South Pasadena, California.