An orange hat
An orange hat is not preposterous, is not an imposter. A brim lifted by wind scallops a face, interferes between two faces attempting contact in a photograph. An orange hat blown down a breach is not unbecoming in rumors. A bright circle against a pale oval draped in black. Who is a person having never preferred this segment or band of refraction? A rag of color chooses an orange latitude, a burnt minute. Heady as a seagull piercing an abandoned foil bag, perching on top of an umbrella, diving beneath laughter. Who unfurls saturation? What is change and what is a preference for an orange chain of mind or a sunset of ellipses. Elapse of day? Eclipse of age? Is the middle another location for smolder, ash, and worn moons?
A hand
Show me how to read my own hands, where inscriptions reliably live, how to return to inviolable outlines. A hand massaging color into a drawing with slow and careful strokes. A date is not a date twice round. The shadow of a hand writes anything.
Cameos
But what shall I do or be? Subscribe to weeks, and wardrobes with extra reminders. We received your subject that might suffice and cuffs lined with incantations. Follow the approach of blurred slinkiness. You’ve been likely hearing leopardlike disruptions, finding immovably holy sequins.
Laynie Browne's recent books include: Practice Has No Sequel, Intaglio Daughters, and Letters Inscribed in Snow. She edited the anthology A Forest on Many Stems: Essays on The Poet’s Novel. Honors include a Pew Fellowship and the National Poetry Series Award. She teaches and coordinates the MOOC Modern Poetry at University of Pennsylvania.