Lisa Russ Spaar


Whose lover is the eye,
traveling where the body cannot.

Who found the word golden.
Who held the prodigal coming & going,

& who, hovering on the landing,
defied the Ratio & sang the copper plate.

Who opened Locke’s closet.
Who spent his last shilling

sending out for a pencil—a pen obdurate—
then flew about the room, a Lawless weft

of flame, in all directions—

for William Blake