(after Christine Boyka Kluge’s Lamb)
i read a poem about a lamb across the valley,
lost and distant and there was mention
of smoke separating the animal from its viewer.
as i think of it now i imagine myself reflected
in the yellowed worn page of the book;
well handled, well read and perhaps well loved.
i see myself as the lamb turned upside down
on the edge of the paper as if a world inverse
of this more complicated reality outside
of its frail edges. i see myself removed
from myself and wonder of the smoke mentioned
and whether it was me who started the fire;
the fire that would eventually eat up the page
into hungry embers and when the lamb
in the image had burned, would i disappear?
