Ansatz: Confronting a Still Life

I. 



 



Will I eat the rotting apple before me. 



Is that why you left it, inclining toward 



 



the blank-faced compass, oblique to 



the violin missing a string in spilled 



 



wine from the overturned chalice, 



pooling at the chipped carapace 



 



of a turtle. And whose skull is that, 



also chipped, also slow on the cloth. 



 



II. 



 



Am I obliged of this cluster to pluck



the fragile ones. Just as in the anatomy 



 



of woman every station must have



its briny tubes. Just as in the anatomy



 



of choice every action need not have will 



behind it which is to say choice does not 



 



in the penumbra of utility 



reveal preference. 



 



III. 



 



But I want to engage. Want to tell 



you all I have learned about will 



 



in the intervening years.



If I peel the apple I can soak it in 



 



vinegar, carve out a face and 



leave it to dry in the sun. 



 



Let it shrink into a head 



swathed in the tablecloth



 



shrouded in shouldness. 



Perhaps it will remind me 



 



of normativity. Or of



the grace with which we used 



 



to put one foot in front of the other 



to walk or of the inertia that has since 



 



filled in the roads around us. 



Reminders, remainders, remedies— 



 



have I solved your tangram, 



did I play the right game, 



 



my scarecrow is small but vain



 as I am—void, pour, *drain*—



 



the difference is its flesh, 



which is now preserved— 



 



my scarecrow will remain



on this table in this foyer 



 



until you move it, which know- 



ing you will be when you tear up



 



a letter you believe you never 



received. I will believe the same.