I Left My Wings on a Chair

When the wire man in love with the boiled wool woman imagines himself making love with her under the emerald tree and then making her a mouth, is he desiring to make for her a mouth, or to make of her a mouth? Such questions charge Karen Schuberts off-kilter worlds with a force less like gravity than like Brownian movement: the poems in I Left My Wings on a Chair dont orbit, they careen.H. L. Hix See more