What Critics

Elise Houcek

Manipulating hands
Down on the plain,
A lapse to dent a primate:
Each effort a suede moth I asked on.
There is no trick to the cup,
Arriving recovered to a shy deal
Though already a different photograph.
The shape loosens.
I found it hard to present people
In an entirely distinct opera,
Fifty years of what critics
Not a robe for language
Not a leash
Slamming at a flower
Where an ally chose.
One day, her uplifted palms
Will sign off. The insult, too,
Has generated novelties.
She referred to one winter
As a “calm press”– to know a phrase
Produces an alphabet.
Geometric apple of her right hand,
One hand
Simultaneously the synthesizer
And the mesh,
I set aside the study
Of pointing a puppet.