Assume, that is, something very wrong,
In the city as well as in the country.
Every season brings its
Machines and effects and affects and defects.
Like a dirty turquoise thought,
The sound of blue jays screaming at squirrels
Was enough to let you know you were in the garden.
The compass points queerly on such an evening,
And the ticket was a frightening object;
Like a communion wafer it indicated some sort of commitment.
The numbers on it were a fatality.
It was a double-blind study. Or a triple-blind.
Later a cleaver in the hands of a farmer’s wife
Who now works as an administrative assistant in a high school.
And I’m infamous for my basements.
“Your nose is dirty, Fido.”
Thanks so much for that information,
Maybe you can suggest some smug solution,
Like smoking a joint.
“You’d have to ask my wife about that.”
No one could provide you with an easier spell of agitation.
We accompanied him on the mandolin into the nether regions.
About the AuthorIan Ganassi’s poetry, prose and translations have appeared in numerous literary journals, including New American Writing, The Yale Review, Interim, Blackbox Manifold (England), Mad Hatter Review, New England Review, and China Grove. His first poetry collection, Mean Numbers, is due out in the Fall.