Ella Schoefer-Wulf
Writing in proximity to Donna de la Perrière
will you look at this watercolor!
dilute me again. The actual occurrence
may be vibrant
the mountains the moments
empty empty the
vast emptiness terrorize
me again
the moments the moment
knowing that elsewhere there is a vast emptiness
like colors: words run into each other
Distance is beautiful. Tell us about yourself (just this) I’ll assemble the words elsewhere
like ash-blond automatic ever meeting mineral basement like fixing one day I used
murdered and murdered a brief period small, dark & almost (but not quite) barefoot
Just this: a memory
undiluted or without language
so it never became
association turns
windows to the view
tapping finger to the
pain and
a gaze towards
(just this just
this) the poem is not
a photograph but
an organism
a poem about the way things are which is an architecture of memory and entirely
fictitious There is no truth but hospitals no streets but bloodlines and we are back at
departures and distances which is your proximity to the actual occurrence that nestles in
your body and calls to attention remember, remember
distance is beautiful
( )
home is exhausted
I am exhausted when I read the world home. The front door shutting behind you is not the
front door shutting behind you nor is it the front door shutting behind you
I am exhausted. This is your home
dilute me again. The actual occurrence
may be vibrant
the mountains the moments
empty empty the
vast emptiness terrorize
me again
the moments the moment
knowing that elsewhere there is a vast emptiness
like colors: words run into each other
Distance is beautiful. Tell us about yourself (just this) I’ll assemble the words elsewhere
like ash-blond automatic ever meeting mineral basement like fixing one day I used
murdered and murdered a brief period small, dark & almost (but not quite) barefoot
Just this: a memory
undiluted or without language
so it never became
association turns
windows to the view
tapping finger to the
pain and
a gaze towards
(just this just
this) the poem is not
a photograph but
an organism
a poem about the way things are which is an architecture of memory and entirely
fictitious There is no truth but hospitals no streets but bloodlines and we are back at
departures and distances which is your proximity to the actual occurrence that nestles in
your body and calls to attention remember, remember
distance is beautiful
( )
home is exhausted
I am exhausted when I read the world home. The front door shutting behind you is not the
front door shutting behind you nor is it the front door shutting behind you
I am exhausted. This is your home