Circles Where the Head Should Be by Caki Wilkinson

By Caki Wilkinson

The poems in Circles the place the top could be are filled with items and oddities, bits of stories, epic catalogues, and a solid of characters hoping to make feel of all of it. beneath the customarily whimsical floor, even though, lies a look for these connections we lengthy for yet so usually pass over, and a want for paintings to bridge the gaps. Circles the place the pinnacle can be has its personal unique voice, a full of life intelligence, insatiable interest, and a determined command of shape. those traits play off each other in ways in which teach and pleasure. An impossible to resist book.”—J. D. McClatchy, writer of Mercury Dressing: Poems, pass judgement on hurricane and tension spider net helps a bead of rain is as major as rain’s get to the bottom of, poised the place a few spinneret has pitched its threads aslant, given that, held or conserving, each one endures a pressure— one presses, one reacts. Don’t inquire from me what it’s worthy. regardless of the evidence of matter’s favourite states, such concentration’s of no outcome past this existence, a web adapted to wreck, too past due for recompense while weight evaporates.

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A spot-on forgery—so notice this eclipses notice me. II. Crypsis Others would rather try a guise of shadow, stripes, or shape in flux between two optic opposites (like certain birds with getups tailor-made from counterfeits of shade and countershade). In contrast, monochrome supports a masquerade of subtleties so those who stalk the tertium quid will pass, failing to see the lacewing queen or katydid for all the forest’s green. 45 III. Idem Well, have I lost you yet? I’m coy, I know, but don’t mind being chased as long as you’re two steps behind— it’s just sometimes approach feels like attack and, found, I find I want my background back.

Perhaps, but manic, pseudocidal, the girl has no idea (her father’s words) whether she’s lost a mare or found a bridle. What now? she thinks. The only song they know bursts from the Primate House, fortissimo. She’s stuck. An ambered fly. A bowl-shaped fish, or else the bowl, her murkiest concerns spreading like culture in a petri dish. Still, lonely has two poles—part cure, part curse (see pharmakon); between them, stasis turns her room into a fine-tuned universe. So locomotion’s neither here nor there: the axis mundi is her rolling chair.

Big Sandstone Building in Memory of Preparing for the future, slow and steady, the students cruise these traveled halls with ease. Some will concede to genius—when they’re ready; for now, it’s hard enough to find a seat or hear the expert on Diogenes (required). Meanwhile, the fledgling corps d’elite, will idle, limacine, along the quad and rehearse Real Life, Act One: the smile-and-nod. Others, like fish or deer, will reify a pluralistic singularity: upstairs, a girl who charts the blinking I between the margins of the screen—her mind racing to keep her place—works constantly, fidgets, deletes, and realigns, resigned to making notes for notes she ought to keep; she pencils in her planner wake up, sleep.

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