The Origin of Yet Has Been an Object of Endless Speculation*

p
o
e
m
s

One day the rain may make us blind—mollusk shells

that walk about without the flesh, without a lens.

Hard ribbed curvatures looking to find hands

under the very sameness of the sky we daily drown in.

The uncondemned houses never reach this far.

We can almost taste the seaweed on the sea.

You beat and beat a little foot. Everything

is gentle as after a hurricane. O eyes that look into

the distance and know what’s coming!

Some days we’re lion-toothed, some we’re not even rabid.

We flutter like finches that crack on the tongue.

Or we imitate beetle legs without the beetle body,

walking in rhythm along the window, out a screen hole

with a pure insistent thrum. Come shelter

under this apple in flower, its pink fingers opening.

How did it learn to be so kind? For moments,

we’re out of danger, afraid of nothing—when

a rain that had never rained begins to rain.

 

* Anatoly Liberman

Paul Nemser is the author of Taurus (2013), which won the New American Poetry Prize, and Tales of the Tetragrammaton (2014), a chapbook of prose poems.

You Might Also Enjoy

No Cares Liza

Paul Legault

Repair the divine highway to L.A. / when it hurts to stay. When it hurts to go, / do a little dance to keep from leaving.

poems

Baffler Newsletter

New email subscribers receive a free copy of our current issue.

Further Reading

 November 29

An former Guardian editor lays out a vision of the global media crisis that is largely detached from actual politics.

Heads Up: We recently updated our privacy policy to clarify how and why we collect personal data. By using our site, you acknowledge that you have read and understand this policy.