No, not like that. I mean how once a man read an essay about how to fill an open field with flowers. It instructed him to seed poems like careful enjambment. What is left is a dangling question about how to dispose of a boulder blocking the path of the plough ahead. The way we remove the things we believe do not belong. I mean, yes, that excess is my concern. And what we do with excess—how it rolls between our fingers or tucks itself away into a pocket to be saved for later like the last stick of gum or a ball of collected lint. What remains? That he grows poems while I fold the laundry. You cannot know if a boulder is blocking the plough. You must first run into it. And meanwhile he talks about all the ways it is impossible to know if enough is too much; if too much is exactly enough. What am I saying? Too long; I didn’t read. I am busy devising clever ways to move stone by crafting a lever from all these scraps of paper. I am tucking these words under soil in the hope that they will grow. I mean this isn’t something either you or I can control. Not poetry; I mean what will happen next, forever.


Danielle Rose is the author of two short books, at first & then and The History of Mountains. Her work can be found in Palette, Hobart & Pithead Chapel.