--Allan Peterson 
Smoke rising up curls down the same shapes
as ink through water
placed lightly with a dropper
medusas fall like petticoats spread wide
and fall within falling
There are things beyond the senses
but we are not built for them
We do not know their number or the number
we contain or where our edges are
We infer them from the apparently miraculous
As ink forms a Man O' War
in the drinking glass Ophelia floats neatly
face up eyes open
under the river bridge ...dress spread like farthingale
staring elsewhere one hand open
one curled tightly on what we cannot see

*from Peterson's current collection, Fragile Acts, as available through the McSweeney's Poetry Series.

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