there is an American ghost
it knows north from south,
east from west
it knows a fence from a tare
I have been assigned
to interview it, but it is shy—
it rushes away
into the collision of nouns
for which the museum
was, if not built, then planned
I want to ask it
about coherence & intimacy
(in that order)
American ghost I say
it is November & we are not
yet saved
but it knows this already
it raises its arms
into the new satellite, dark
like the stones of
living longer, if not forever
acts of consequence
build within me
slowly, at a musical pace
emissary, dawn’s new foil
unquenchable allowances
a legend glowing
in the bounds of onliness
Note: The editors thank audio technician Paulo Botelho for his assistance in the recording of this audio track.
What surprised you about the composition of this poem?
Every poem, for me, is a surprise, line by line, image by image. If I know more than a line or two in advance where a poem I’m writing is headed, that’s . . . a lot to know. (And in those cases knowing often ruins the poem, which turns into some sort of expository prose.) In this case, I got up on the morning of December 15, 2022, and drafted a really flawed poem that subsequently underwent dozens of revisions—and then this poem appeared, fully formed, a gift.
Originally there was one more stanza: “friends, the mitigation / of meekness is a project / the market hones like a blade.” I still believe this to be true, but I decided I would like it not to be true in the poem, in the world of this poem. Regardless of what the ghosts say or refuse to say.