Dobby Gibson & Matt Hart: She Drew Me This Picture of a Kidney

Dobby Gibson has a new digital camera

Matt Hart watches a magic mouse steal his gold watch

THERMOS’s mid-April blog poets are Dobby Gibson and Matt Hart. Dobby Gibson is the author of Polar (Alice James Books, 2005), which won the Beatrice Hawley Award, and Skirmish (Graywolf Press, 2009). He lives in Minneapolis. Matt Hart is the author of Who’s Who Vivid (Slope Editions, 2006) and YOU ARE MIST (Moor Books, forthcoming). He lives in Cincinnati. This poem is from the book Late Makeup Years and Decline (1979-1983), which both poets wrote collaboratively and is available from Hell Yes! Press.





Then she walked across the parking lot
pretending to be fog, and the resemblance,

thus dispersive, was grand. So
when the sun bounded up like a too-noisy

cruise ship, I thought I could marry the clouds
of her, if only they would stand still

and face one another. What were the magic

words again? Even the simplest sherbet
seemed to hold some resinous secret.

Rain smeared the pane. Her frequent flatterings,
as fashionably impermanent as her sibilants,

swamped the valley nonetheless. It was then
a wild pitch made her duck from my story,

a tell-tale sign that the future was failing

and all I had left was to walk like a honeycomb,
unhurriedly. All the greeny afternoon

and into the evening’s evening I considered
my resignation. It had to sing of the truth

and make total strangers regret the circumstances
of my fate. In the middle of the night, the fog broke.

In the morning, we began to argue how.


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