“The foregrounding of artifice—dwelling on the making of the poem, in a poem—seems to go to the core of what poetry is, doesn’t it?”

      Young gray cat puddled under the boxwood,
Only the eyes alert. Appressed to dirt. That hiss
      The hiss of the grasses hissing What should
What should. Blank road shimmers. On days like this,
                                My mind, you hardly
                                   Seem to be.
                                On days like these.

      As the storm moved in, you marked the night
And later the night marked you. A biblical clap woke
      The house to a spray of sheetrock: a powdered sprite
Sprung off the nailheads. Air flavored with ozone.
                                On the ceiling in the hallway, a halo
                                   Grew orange around a fixture, aglow—
                                And Dad on the phone