The Bounded Outward Circumference
Barton Allen

He begins in the middle beforehand
in his work. Back at the cellar door
perhaps. That slot in it. A ventshaft,
a hollow accidentally painted yellow,
blackness as odd as noticing the end.
And a noisemaker thrown down. What shakes,
inside the baby's glass rattle, are as bone
shavings, or rodent's teeth, crownshaped,
like asterisks, enameled jacks. Keepsakes lost
ticks ago. But these are after the fact.

He lifts his finger from the penlight's clip,
reaches down and pockets the rest in case.
When he shakes his hand, lint falls.
Inquiry is more and more an answer. He responds,
despite it all, dissecting the means, the hinge.

*

Barton Allen's first collection, June in the Drawer of Lowboy,
which includes this poem and almost 50 others,
is now available from Rogue Literary Society.

1996 © 2003