by Nicholas Klacsanzky
Wanted it to be natural – a fact
in a guidebook about India,
or the acceptance of an insectile fragility.
But no one hears a voice
through a broken lantern.
Silos of blank poems
are empty to pursue division –
how a word tastes when injected
through reading sight – elongated tunnels
of light, their tips securing a painting out of canvas
on childhood wallpaper. Art is never
art. Coincidence has as much clarity.