Three Poems from The Event
Stacey Tran

They told this

in all cities.

The shape

to examine it

closely. But the

spectator. All eyes

in the cottage at



Well, this is my plotting

and precautions. But you,

living how it happens

with you. I am useful,

irregular: exposed

to exist only for you.

You are too close to

matter for you. But meanwhile

I am the furniture

of this room, the scattered

view, like a river

moving on someplace.

And so as well:

notions that are unusable because

too general. Nothing

applies without

a subsidiary mass someday.


Only the day to

matter for you. You are alive

around bright levels

of incidence

filling space up.