Cento from Arts & Letters Spring 2007

I do not remember this. I was a child
in the darkness, a winged rustling; & later
brilliant red & yellow. & grief, certainly,

is very matter-of-fact: warm bodies (monkeys
for days). Nevertheless,
things weren't always bad.

Something enters by the small window
because, let's face it, sometimes words drift too far off.
I don't know how to get back there now

said an ancient theory of medicine.
Looking at it, did he actually leave
the slow mule of my heart?

All afternoon, his back deep in the grass, he lay there
sun-bronzed,
moving more and more like fiction.