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Poems
This is where we keep them: toy trucks
with busted wheels, the broken stuff we cant get rid of, our old books, the splintered chair, the fractured tabouret. Theres something stagey in our garbage. The furniture is theatrical and grim. Our repudiated gestures still live there, six feet under the kitchen. They wear the vague insulted look of slighted relatives, belonging, but pushed aside. The dark place gives reluctant nobility to these disowned things. I picture other broken objects down here, not always on view: behind the dead palm, a litter of stillborn phras ... This article is available to subscribers and for individual purchaseSubscribe to TNC (Print and Online editions) Subscribe to TNC (Online only) This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 23 June 2005, on page 28 Copyright © 2012 The New Criterion | www.newcriterion.com http://www.newcriterion.com/articles.cfm/ormsby-1067
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