To begin an essay called “Gluten” with anything other than an explication of the metaphorical substance and how it pertains to my subject…would be obscure, or coy. Gluten is a protein that binds fibers together. It’s a “tough, viscid, nitrogenous substance remaining when the flour of wheat or other grain is washed to remove the starch.” It’s strong and pervasive and sticky.
Permission Slip
Hell-o.
This on?
Think I’m hearin me. Me.
This reverbin either in the buildin or in my head. Whatever. Ha.
Nobody listnin anyways right?
Four Poems
A balance at the weight
Of one large yolk shines:
Three Poems
STILL not finished review
but productive day and feeling
GÜT
like a fine mama
Couch
I finished it even before I went through passport control, really I finished it at JFK. It was in my hand while the man asked me questions, but I had already read the end, in line. When I shut the book, for a minute I was satisfied, or self-satisfied, you might say, because it was a long flight, and I had accomplished that, at least.
The Kettle Pond
When I was a boy we lived out in Mosfellsbaer, in the valley between Mount Esja and the hill we called Langahlið. It was only my mother and me in a small cement house; my father had moved in with his other family. Next to the house there was a small pool, called a kettle pond, of a type common in Iceland: round and deep, left over after a chunk of glacier melted. It had no inlet or outlet except the sky.
Anon
there is a lake that’s nervous
of anything too composed
there is always the horse
Three Poems
On this day of rest we require an emblem
proving the harps and small bells determined
to be released from the phonograph are
Wrecking Ball
With what stern determination I love
That wall!—: its red height so certain I must
Two Poems
This descent less decisive but at least a being called away, as the break of pool balls rolling to. Look up, a precise if not intentional direction: Blue Angels are famous in bereft landscapes.
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