Butter Knife

The pressure of the better
Builds up somewhere you can’t see,
The precision of the moors,

Of the chained captives drowning,
Of the refrigerator
Glowing around packaged food,

Of all the phrases chosen,
Or maybe sprung unbidden
And committed straight to ink

By the writers piling up
Through your eyes, between your ears—
Stop. Just for a moment, pause.

The finches are at their nest.
The spring afternoon tourists
Have emptied the parking lot

To drive into the canyons.
One engine roars down the street.
Emotion, you realize,

Is what the authors conjure—
That solitude on the moor,
That despair of the captives,

That self-loathing at the fridge—
And it would be the same if
Those emotions were brighter.

The point is the emotions.
Emotions are better, best.
These phrases lack emotions,

Or rather, they lack an edge
That could slice into your thoughts
So emotions would bleed out.

The finches are still singing,
Also a wren. The engine
Has long gone. The sun’s so bright.