After the rain, I was told to be
a maker of vases, longing for a sacrilege
to mold into scientific self-pity.
Reigning in the mortal mind,
ciphering strips scripts to abbreviate
the feuilletons in the skull.
It’s possible, one thinks,
that not to succumb to word-happiness
is like some short-lived Commemorative stamp,
born into a world where
“you put my constellation up” (A. Mlinko),
poster-boarded poster boy for
a mouthful of tacks, biblical behemoth
alignment, so beautifully-ancient, I mean.
I meant to say, even when our tiniest conversation
produces pleasure, or agony?, my fingers
tightly clutch like the way the body tends to tense-up
& where I’m found is “just there” like a treetop
or in some stray line of poetry, undefined,
like a clumsy instrument
where all the theories exhaust our lack of admiration.
Does the Zenith have a zenith? A top? Spinning?
I flee like some French fleet, swift feet—
the parrot-chatter published daily
when I look at myself in the mirror
tells me that I’ve accepted delirium
as the feathery-hide of an uncooked goose.