And so to begin, most informally, not nearly completely, and frankly quite abruptly: “St. Roach.”
By poem’s end, we can’t quite be sure. A cockroach is invoked, which is clever–but it spoils the “troubled and witty” nerves of a shadowy thing standing by with emotional content. What does it say to us, this troubling glimpse of thoughtful darkness?
Ruke spots a line and catches it, stranding it down to a point where she clips, and doubles, then aligns this block. The effect is vertical, uninterrupted. Read it through and you are throwing these lines in symmetrically strung blocks of beauty and resentment, well played and expertly timed.
Do you know how to talk about this poem?
Though I don’t exactly, I can say with confidence something which seems to have little in common with an indispensable readerly tip:
Such a poem is not open to definitions, or to measurements.
The spirit of mathematical analysis is not welcome here.