Love, Delight, and Alarm [excerpt], by Karen Weiser

Then the treehouse burned. And continued

unobliterable as the sea

to burn. The photo of it burning

hangs on its wall, taken from high up,

but not that high. The firemen

approach cautiously, minus the

four-part regimented solace, that

would repeat. If the act of

painting is Drawing the boundaries

of a fire, can I disappear

into the initial combustion? If the

act of painting stops time or at

least its cornet of fronted tremendous,

I could disappear into the Encyclopedia

of Animal Life as the cherub’s sleepiest

wet tusk. I could start with a dexterous

periscope and end by feeling

time, the largest block of it

I can conceive collectively

Smell I the flowers, or thee?
See I lakes, or eyes?