Poetry | Betsy Johnson

hyr choyce of study is gravel

hole after rain

 

a mirror and a mud the

 

result of mixing earth matter & mire.

 

clothynged in the tiny fragments of hyr field

–battled history, sheborne of the mud.

 

she kick & fling

 

because what myght be is joined to steepy waves & slickery slope

 

because what wyll is unconcerned with tender.

 

and yet when she sees deepe gonna

wade in.

 

this is her cleir fayth:

 

muck to touch

bottom & find it sucking

 

and soft

as an afternoon

 

bed, she wakes and for some reason,

it matters:

 

is the black and white

angel she sees

 

in the picture flying

 

or thrown