War | M. Alan Cox
Nature doesn't come in sharp
angles. Architecture
mounts an assault—juts
into the Strait
of San Juan de Fuca. Points
itself toward Asia: negates all traces
in my mind of the sloped, curving
rooflines I associate with Japan: a wave
like stone worn
by sand. The curve of a breast
against a black curtain.
America's this house. Not
because we're especially unattractive—
we just always ruin
everyone's view. Black glass
catches sun
coming off Cedars—
muddles the color into something
besides green.
In the name of accuracy
substitute in opposition to for besides—
besides seems like a pair
of lovers curled
into a ball, not drowned bodies
strangling each other.
read about the author | © 2006 Contrary Magazine