Dustin Junkert

Our Climate

Listen to Dustin Junkert read his piece:

 For Wallace Stevens

  1
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.

  2
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?

  3
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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