One's instruments cannot measure
this
Feeling in the space between two
bodies
Lacuna of desire embodied in a
clicking
Tongue to count one’s footsteps down
Streets whose names are changed whose
Houses all are rearranged O the same
old story
One knows this tired tale the
selfsame props
A dead man reads a newspaper an
onion slices
Itself in equal halves and go ahead
and laugh
If one feels that way for this is on
one’s mind
Until forever or until the
mathematicians quit
Applauding and one thinks a good
deal then
Of the casual fistfights of youth
the bloody grins
After and what they might have meant
No comments:
Post a Comment