Versione Italiana | Nota biografica | Versione lettura |
That’s how it was then, a knife
through cartilage, a body broken. Animal
and animal as mineral ash. A window smashed.
The collective howl as a general alarm
followed by quiet.
Boot-black night,
halogen hum. Tape snaking through
a stealth machine. Later, shattered glass
and a checkpoint charm—the clasp
of a tourist-trap bracelet. An arm. A trinket.
Snap goes the clamshell. The film
in the braincase preserving the sense
of the drench, the angle of the leash,
the connecting collar. A tracking long-shot.
The descent of small-town darkness.
I wear red to match the air
that comes over the fence
and fills the jar in which I keep the day.
I say every dog looks like no other
but that isn’t true. Not entirely.
Difference is slippery. I say,
Just look at my head, how it tilts to look up
at these over-large leaves. They’re large
and blue, the better to be seen
by my pincushion eye, so bright in the light.
I am sad. I am happy. I keep busy.
I count the eight legs of the tick
on the table. Arachnid and such.
The book I leave open, the wind blows it shut.
In late April I make a schedule: June
to July, July to August. I begin to realize
the circus will be places, minds, people,
pleasure. The drumming all of these.
I practice, when I’m not sure of myself,
this repetition: know, know, know, knew.
I think that chaos fascinates me. I say,
I am part of that,
one of the characters in a cage.
We’re sitting here quietly.
You’re feeling your arm, I’m feeling my face.
We’re supposed to stay quiet
and live the waiting life.
We were told to be a portraitist’s object
and imitate a sad fate.
We are a skull times two.
We’re supposed to stay quiet.
Herr Moment is looking
at a watch that says now.
Its red face reminds me of the eye of an ogre.
Its shiny rim reminds me
of Herr Moment’s handcuffs.
I don’t want to speak
about what can’t be fathomed—
mourning and missing, rings cut from corpses,
Herr Moment’s refusal to show his real face.