When I read that James Wright poem, with the horses,
the image that comes to my mind is from early
in Michael Clayton, just before the car explodes.
Imagine the poet, in Minnesota of all places,
reaching out his hand and instead of blossom
it’s the burning contents of a leased Mercedes.
What is at shape in my mind is too plain
for even this poem, these phrases that I fear
are too simple, yet too particular. No one cares
how much this movie predicted, no one
remembers (what, exactly? Is this where you tie in
biographical information, a comment on manhood,
or do you just try and say what you wanted to?).
The danger that lurks in a white space, a green
field, a car that won’t start, a Blackberry,
a conglomerate. To them, I am just a collection
of data points that I’m certain will one day soon
outnumber the cells in my body. The stars in the sky.
The ashes that stumble out of life.
Chase Ferree (he/him) is a teacher in Seattle, Washington. Originally from North Carolina, he’s also lived in Missouri and Massachusetts. His poems have appeared in or are forthcoming in Dwelling Literary, The Harvard Advocate, Peripheries Journal, and Stone of Madness Press.