The Steinach Operation

A place of semi-natural vigor.


This is how she do's Friday night. Elisa Gabbert droppin' it on 4/21 for NaPoWriMo.


All week Jen watched the circus out her window;
Chris has no windows, just postcards of paintings

& he gazes at the wall of his cube w/ distant eyes
like he wants to stick his hand thru the pane

of Magritte-colored sky, like when I was sixteen
& drove drunk at night w/ my hand thrust out like

a blade the wind would cut itself in half against
& be twinned forever; it could not be unsevered;

then 2000 yrs went by & the wind had been split
& split again into infinitesimal/infinite wires

that wrapped around the world like fishing line
& sliced every surface like skates on ice

but the world healed over & forgot the limns
of the wind wires; the land unremembers them

& every fall the pussy willows catch fire
& the gay hotel with them, all up in smoke,

blown away like an eyelash, sublimated
to a graphite smudge in the sky above the stadium,

the ashy thumbprint of September, the slow,
pretty fade—we watch it from our offices,

the world growing over itself, internalizing
its landmines, archiving its war crimes.


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