as the golden larch grows out another spring,
insofar as the needles look gold or copper
with the close of the growing season—and fall
like the milk teeth of a mammal, deciduous,
like the milk teeth of a mammal, deciduous,
insofar as deciduous is what falls down or off, really
what is cut off, insofar as a thing can be cut off
what is cut off, insofar as a thing can be cut off
from its other, extraneous, as in the making of
decisions, as in the feeling of this being severed
decisions, as in the feeling of this being severed
from an adjacent feeling for that, as if these feelings
had not a common vertex and a common side,
had not a common vertex and a common side,
insofar as the tree you have in mind is both
coniferous and deciduous . . .
coniferous and deciduous . . .
[read more of “Insofar” in NER 38.3]
Sarah Gridley is an associate professor of English at Case Western Reserve University. She is the author of three books of poetry: Weather Eye Open (University of California Press, 2005), Green Is the Orator (University of California Press, 2010), and Loom (Omnidawn Publishing, 2013).
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