from "why" by Martha Ronk

from why

If I say I don’t believe you is this impatience
without waiting for an answer which might take days or years.
Hard to sit still to hear what in the interstices might sing.
Again that liquid bird repeating the same story
over and over in the car as you list the placements
of adjectives and verbs out of which arises what seems
to be music in the malleable and soft folding of silver
inside an afternoon parenthesis of what was it again?


Source of the text - Martha Ronk, why/why not.  Berkeley: University of California Press, 2003, p. 66.

TJB: Poetry as what might sing in interstices, as what seems musical in grammar, as unclassifiable. What did “you” say that “I” might not believe?