Lisa Russ Spaar

cinéma vérité:

A stolid rain labors hard
in the numbskull, loose-leaf balcony
of the trees, but this late-season theater,

its summer curtain dulled
by slates of glass, holds on.
Why does this make me feel

I’m being dreamed by a stranger?
And while I want to step out—
shin-sopped and crazed to the scalp hairs

in its silver cinders—and kneel,
scissors gnawing all the thinning stems,
drenched minarets of onion grass,

aureole of Job’s-tears, gleaning what I can
from this blunt school of reaping,
instead I’m transfixed at the window,

its slaked, divisive pane making fish
of birds, and an extra of me, to whom
the master plot is undivulged, incidental.