What's wanted is not always what is thought of,
last bits of autumn's maquillage turned winter
as even language can't unbruise what broke.
Something tells me an ending's regret is
a greater portion,
rescinding out into a new form of quest.
Something tells me I will be okay.
A clock clocks in after,
not knowing whose passenger is unordinary
and whose made of morning dresses again.
You leap in where last years were
made more blessed because
almost touched by something that could become wholly pure.
Elsewhere is a raven crux:
every beginning is quiet.
In envelopes:
city's generations
(a hint of ash:
two units
widen at a thought)
as a self
makes new
in a winter's
composed
exigency
Apart from marrow, and then almost denied
because made almost emptier:
here's one for sugar, one for salt.
Every picture of a pond is a same image
as one that's been seen before, as if in a dream.
A woman brushes a hat from collarbone,
escapes a man's viewing.
It's as if they were magnetic.
It's as if they were almost.
Someone drives a car past a highway's entrance
as if to deny its permanence,
rooted where no stasis could gleam.
Laura Carter is a writer living in Atlanta, where she writes and teaches and tend cats. She got her MFA here in 2007, and she is active in the burgeoning literary community in the city.
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