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Pimone Triplett

BPR 45 | 2018

          —the falconer’s wife considers the satellite

Point of view, which is the realtor’s too:
                        powers of ten
plummeting a house

                value till numbers kick the ass of
whatever our local opulence
        has to offer. Dogwood at dusk.

A big so-what
                for these off-white,
                        Kleenex-wadded flowers,

waney-edged, upturned
        as supplicants.
  I could covet my own mile-high

        scene’s toy streets,
                its lawn blobs, blacktop smudges
hugging the dread-locked broccoli trees.

        Such worldly shifts in scale
scale us
        open, making any surface

                        dream us inwardly
                all the more so.
Likewise, our mortgage yoked

        to syn-
                chronous orbit tends to say

                the typesetter here,
        hon, its simula-
  income marking what measure

        can still be called
                mine and yours.
                        Where to house

the annals of
        our affections and their opposite?
                The mews you built

        can be seen from space,
                doubles down on shadows,
painterly as some far-off pagoda.

        It signals,
snapshot and axis upbeaming to one
        antenna where the image

                is strengthened. Things have the look
                        of being spied on.
                                I walk outside,

                stand beside the window bars, wave up
in time
        to miniaturize

                        rended or rendered
        in fact, like the hawk

                        you tried to love
                                who disappeared herself
                into a pine-walled forest forever.

The scratches on your face
        haven’t healed. Maybe you know when the right
distance for looking

        rocketed off. Time
                        I said I hated the wild
                bird you brought home, I lied. Her eye

was all I envied. Up close she could talon-rip
        into the rabbit’s fleshy neck, keep
                that eye unflinching

                        which is yellow and no one’s
                and owes nothing
                                to the seen.