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Caedmon
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I sit with my back in my hands, turnedagainst everything. I’m facing what I think

is the wind. It has the eyes I’ve sought,the skin I’ve felt under stone. It has

the sound of only and a wrist of land.I can smell it calling through swirling

birch. And when I reply, my voiceestranges me, praises this blindfold

of world across my eyes. Dark feltmaking my eyelashes bow. What I find

here will be represented, brokenand exposed. What I say will have ruin

value contained in the breath of a bodythat is maddeningly whole. [End Page 45]

Christopher Kondrich

Christopher Kondrich is the author of Contrapuntal (Parlor Press, 2013) and a recipient of The Paris-American Reading Series Prize. New poems appear or are forthcoming in American Letters & Commentary, Boston Review, Colorado Review, Guernica, Gulf Coast, Drunken Boat, The Paris-American, Sixth Finch, 32 Poems and Washington Square. He is a PhD Candidate at the University of Denver and an editor for Denver Quarterly.

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