An excerpt from

There, there
by Patrick Warner


What knows knows, but what knows this
is not what knows. What knows knew
enough last week to let me slump
and like some slow, dot-eyed tunneller
maw a bit-stream of low grade text.

I got nothing done, but work was done.
What knows knew that this week I
would need to up and, letting neck frill sail,
flare the water surface with a fringed foot,
turn the river skin to trampoline.

Lard tongue flicking, what knows sees
the black, soft mouth, slow witted carp
bump its whiskers on the river bed
and knows that this is not
what knows, but reminds.