Dustin Junkert

Our Climate

Listen to Dustin Junkert read his piece:

 For Wallace Stevens

A clear bowl left on the stepping stone
  in the garden, filled now with rain.

This is a stain on my shirt,
  not a mark of style. My impatience
for familiar things, likewise.

I think of what last year’s garden must feel
about my love of this year’s.

Two carnations—a pink and a white one—float
  wearily around the bowl. One desires
so much more than that.

Don’t stop now. Strip down
even that sweet simplicity
  your soul snugly wears.

Cut down the color green
  into bright green quarks.

Who is capable
of talking this way?

Brilliant snow-white soul before me—
  still, I need more. I want more.
What good is clarity, at, say, night?

The imperfect is our paradise.
An egg is the only possible shape

a soul can take. Simply hand
someone an egg if they tell
  you otherwise.

Alex Streiff is the fiction editor of The Journal.
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