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thinking of this Marie Howe poem again, and how a poem can unseat the laws of reality not by focusing on how the strange is so strange, but rather by focusing on how we fold the strange into our every day living
it's also a great example of altering how we view the world through absence--yes, it's odd a multitude of scissors appear, more and more and more--but then when they vanish we're also left with this resonant absence; the world is inexplicably altered (a kind of grief)
my last thought on this: 1) I love how the conceit is just right there in the beginning; 2) I love how the poem moves through such human emotion--they're everywhere! what will people think? what am I supposed to do? how do I get rid of them? and then contemplating their absence
anyway, if you're someone who wants to write "strange" or speculative poetry, writing about your everyday living being altered by how you adopt a strange thing into your life, then its absence, is a way to go
this could be anything: "my daughter's taken up singing underwater" or "the keys have stopped working, to open doors we sing" or "what we thought were ghosts were really raccoons, in the attic, slipping into summer clothes" or or or
