Fear of sinkholes, fear of leaving the stove on:
does one ever get used to this?
You are the mind unmatched
for what my body required.
To be here is to criticize.
At times, the letters are enough,
and I save them like currency.
Was it supposed to feel good,
this wild descent into harm?
Self-awareness is a wonderful thing.
The mirror is no longer an enemy.
Let me be a marvel of modern science;
let my form turn to glass,
shrunken figurine beside your bed.
Once, I was someone else’s question,
the other alight in dreams of consent.
Go down, Moses.
Still, I have some time:
predictable hum of machinery
illuminating a way forward
at the moment when love ceases to be narrative,
ceases to be dramatic capitulation.
Today, nothing is obstructing the field.
It is the Deposition, the taking down of the god.
Listen, as one sound moves around the projection of another.
Listen to the colloquy of sparrows, arabesques of orbiting moths.
The pious eye is reliable transportation.
But what does this have to do with God?
It has been an exciting morning:
I have rested, drooling at the mouth-hole.
Forgive me, or don’t forgive me—what do I care?
I’m tired of asking for forgiveness;
I am tired of being obsequious all the time.
Have you seen how sad goat’s eyes are? Look into mine.
Longing would be so much easier
without the other person obstructing it.
Yet life is beautiful, if you attain it with beautiful money.
There is a hole in the garden. It is empty. I envy it.
All the stars are cowards: they lie to us
about their time of death.
Erotic love: what a concept.
Everything’s sublime or nothing is:
the brain humming its electric language,
touching something in a state of becoming.
I fear I am writing a requiem for myself.
When I lie next to you, I miss the world.