(Still, Yet)
by Colin Jeffrey Morris
From an undated ledger page in Audubon’s handwriting. By 1848, his ‘noble mind’ was ‘all in ruins.’
Wipe Pocket to wash Fish,
Wipe Table, deceits
Smoke Pad– Tables, Pocket
Indian Ink– Ashes, Ashes Towels
to wipe, to wash, to catch
to pilfer little dainties
The wheel is on the wagon The mite
is in the cheese The Willow is a tree
Songs– box, fashion– tired,
waste boundary (Willow pasture)
Bath Thread Needle Wheel
Oath envy harm song
to extinguish, to listen, to smoke,
to draw with water color
The table is high, the pocket
is wide, Pilfer not that is not nice
to separate to avoid (to range
to string) to travel
wiped mixed washed pilfered
between throat (Willows to pasture)
Songs leather feather (cart load) mould
vein needles, skull, there, there that
the to the thine one no mine his
Book partition (thing affair)
soft proud cloth (search to sack)
to laugh—to make to pilfer
to rake— to reach rays
wipe thy self (clear, pure)
Box boxes, thread hurt
ah I me self (thee)
already beautiful
The book is new The brook is deep The beech
is a tree The smoke comes out of the chimney
revenge (guard watch)
little corpse (pool laughter)
Shine shrine rail
sight (yet, however) (still, yet)
Colin Jeffrey Morris lives and writes in western Massachusetts. His poems have appeared in Amethyst Review, descant, The Delmarva Review, The Ekphrastic Review, Ekstasis, and Lily Poetry Review.
