to force these intensities to a shape, to burst
or dilate. Body without cause, so detailed, so collate
and threaded, you find yourself together making verbal patterns,
visual attachments, which you can't unless willing
an escape. If you compere, all concepts can be made concrete,
released suddenly, a movement in commonplace, maybe over
your head. Like I've been searching suddenly all over
for justification. Dicing through bends in the time.
It's suddenly a wall of laughter - warping occasion
on a determined faultline. Or, we are all attached
anyway. Not the same as attack. Bent on understanding,
see? And it will curve us as we lean it out. The response
which was so automated, so confused, is more like
keeping up chance, smirched now in the
temperature of the room. High order, it was heady
lately. You had to be there to experience. And even though
one left early, odd throbbing away, ready to hatch.
And though you lay your ear very close to the side of it,
which side have you taken? Responsive or servile?
Others' needs don't curb in the zone used to blast
others' intentions for. Can it be generous while qualifying
embrace? The area is warm where thought pounds on it,
day after day, bending pale green shade afterwards.
That's unclear. Or maybe the eye which makes light of or sense anyway
emily critchley holds a PhD in contemporary, American, women’s poetry and philosophy from the University of Cambridge. She is the author of several poetry chapbooks, with Arehouse, Bad press, dusie, Oystercatcher and Torque, and her Selected Writing, Love / All That / & OK, was published by Penned in the Margins in 2011. She teaches English and Creative Writing at the University of Greenwich, London.