p
o
e
m
s

1 of 3

TJ
1015
.H66 Unknown

possible utterance—compact cassette tape—ca. 1996-1963-

present—1/8’’ magnetic tape (polyester-based tape with

ferromagnetic particles embedded in binder layer) attached to

take-up reels enclosed in plastic case—Dolby noise reduction,

stereo, quarter track con-figuration—1 7/8” (1.875) isp

compressed air

see also: pressure vessels

vacuum—history

conveying machinery

narrower term: bulk solids handling

 

2 of 3

narrower term: pneumatic-tube transportation

see also: orienting mechanism

see also: mental derangements

see also: study of sexes in society

see also: sexual practices viewed as medical disorder

disorientation

channels of distribution

diversion structures

umbras and penumbras

fate and fatalism

narrower term: fortune

 

3 of 3

narrower term: necessity

cloud physics

touch

narrower term: haptic sense

anoxemia

narrower term: after-sensation

narrower term: perceptual disorder

 

 

We are only pneumatic tubes shuttling information.

Only the question information leaves, the shadow of something passing. Look up—empty sky.

The question left by the buttermilk scar along a girl’s knee where nurses swabbed the wound free of gravel and sewed up her imagined future.

We are only the question: when the fog lifts will there be snow on the mountain?

The question of the palm turned and not its meaning: plea, prayer, offering, or reaching to feel if snow is falling.

Only the palm turned waiting for someone to reach across the distance from bed to chair.

Only the creak of the chair and the tick tick of moons dropping from bag to tube.

We are only the crunching of gravel as a car turns into the drive, headlights sweeping over two girls tangled in shadows.

We are only the waiting for the car door to open.

Waiting like the rabbit waits in the light the motion detector clicked on.

We are only the ruffle of fur above her heart as she waits for the dark so

she can scatter.

We are only the grip turning a girl’s hand white as she yanks away in the light.

Only the burn of nerves as the blood returns, the itch of it, hot as guilt.

Elizabeth Hoover’s poetry has appeared in Prairie Schooner, The Crab Orchard Review, and Tupelo Quarterly. She writes criticism for Bitch, Paper, Minneapolis Star-Tribune, and the Washington Post.

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