There is only the idea of seeing. The body,
field-dumped, framed in grass and road side.
See her turn over, minotaur to the grain?
This is the poem getting up, coming through
black and white history, her two halves
tortured by memory, the same way love
goes on, if we remember. It is not
you looking through the peephole, but
the poem, posed for the show. See?
It is the poem who is eating you.
(from Cadaver as Readymade, Jay Snodgrass)