palm desert/palm springs hannah loeb
Mine won’t gray early.
I think I’d know already. Furthermore,
I rather feel the opposite tendency: I
am shocked by the softness of dryness and I thirst
for the fair adjacent swish which baggies of oat
in the freezer for the season get. O,
the way stuff freezes that was never wet!–––
The earth does a placebo thing
beneath the plane I’m in, the airplane,
wherein I think I see the curve
we’re told is there but is too big to see.
I can as easily convince myself
to see a basin, bent the other way,
making the planet an everything-but,
a den in dirt, a bubble in water, and all
our rubbed-bald heads bumping
when we get a little tall or take a fast corner.
There are no corners, though. Essential oils
are sapped outwards, evacuating center.
Inside I bounce around, dry and dry.
I think I’d know already. Furthermore,
I rather feel the opposite tendency: I
am shocked by the softness of dryness and I thirst
for the fair adjacent swish which baggies of oat
in the freezer for the season get. O,
the way stuff freezes that was never wet!–––
The earth does a placebo thing
beneath the plane I’m in, the airplane,
wherein I think I see the curve
we’re told is there but is too big to see.
I can as easily convince myself
to see a basin, bent the other way,
making the planet an everything-but,
a den in dirt, a bubble in water, and all
our rubbed-bald heads bumping
when we get a little tall or take a fast corner.
There are no corners, though. Essential oils
are sapped outwards, evacuating center.
Inside I bounce around, dry and dry.
|
|
Hannah Loeb is a poet and teacher who lives in Bellevue, Idaho. In 2012, she earned her BA at Yale, where she was a Frederick Mortimer Clapp Fellow. In 2015, she earned her MFA from the Iowa Writers' Workshop, where she was a Teaching-Writing Fellow and a John C. Schupes Fellow.