Poem
Franz Wright
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If I stare into it long enough, the point comes when I don’t know what it’s called, a condition in which lacerations are liable to occur, like a slip of the tongue; when a drop of blood might billow in a glass of water, blooming in velvet detonation and imparting to it the colorless, tasteless and originless fear in which I wake.
1975–2010
© 2011, Franz Wright
From: Poetry, Vol. 197, No. 4, January
Publisher: Poetry, Chicago
From: Poetry, Vol. 197, No. 4, January
Publisher: Poetry, Chicago
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Poems of Franz Wright
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BLADE
If I stare into it long enough, the point comes when I don’t know what it’s called, a condition in which lacerations are liable to occur, like a slip of the tongue; when a drop of blood might billow in a glass of water, blooming in velvet detonation and imparting to it the colorless, tasteless and originless fear in which I wake.
1975–2010
From: Poetry, Vol. 197, No. 4, January
BLADE
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