To Cyriack Skinner, In His Blindness

Whenas the Department of Reviews
and Rebukes sends you its assessments
of your late performance, implex
with invective as a stick bug in a grass ball,
and unlike the false tangents of the dream dialectic
at play beneath the surface stream,
these stun us with an aptitude for pointed
shadows, fanciful descriptions and polyphonic
narrative, the prayer book’s rainbow-colored text—
turn the monstrous page of light to the blinding
sonnet addressed to Cyriack Skinner.
The team is sprinting over the gridiron, tiger lilies
spring up in profusion, you have nearly gained
the secret approval of those with whom
you have cultivated strictest enmity. You have nearly
completed the field with work, Olivia,
you are an olive among the virgins, among
the foxgloves. From the footbridge, a distant
prospect, and the buildings glitter like rows
of pins and needles in front of the water,
where the shining ones wait with folded wings
against their backs.
Geoffrey Nutter


Geoffrey Nutter

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