George David Clark

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George David Clark


Light, break my eye
already fractured by

desire, already
splintered into squints

and silvers as it’s
raked along a thigh,

already only slivers
of the wince

inside my smile. Light,
spit in dust, apply

the mud into my sight,
and cake me blind

enough to witness
all a pupil hides.

Light, shake the iris
out my eye; remind

me it’s a guise.
And as a forehand pins

a fly’s against the window—
every lens

brought flat before
a broad white sky, amended

from distraction
to a final splendid

sigh—Light, ache
my eye past all pretense

until its lies rinse
out and I transcend it.

George David Clark reads “Kaleidoscope”

George David Clark’s Reveille (Arkansas) received the 2015 Miller Williams Prize and his recent poems can be found in AGNIThe Georgia Review, The Gettysburg Review, EcotoneThe Southern Review, and elsewhere. The editor of 32 Poems, he teaches creative writing at Washington and Jefferson College and lives in western Pennsylvania with his wife and their four young children.