Pillow brackets, silk covers we all confirm
Upon like a Bible--the wise things of the world
Feel like flesh when they melt, feel like pulling hair
Out for to press between pages. In carving the nose
The appendage must not be overly handled and made
Too slight such that the rest of the head needs
A lot of sanding to even it out, and how much
We know so much depends on what we have
Below the nose anyway. As a child I was kept
Away from wet chickens, which stopped being white
When left in the rain.
How simple my possessions are I understood
Only after living at home, having made it cozy
And intelligible through tended growth.
The garden, itself in a fairer hour,
Saw the sun between the iron gate small enough
To be blocked by a single bar
That now has an aureole. In acceptance of its
More general role, like wit, it is practical even
While transcendent and spilling tea all over
Herself. She demands I leave the room
I am using for reasons I would not have
Other than we live together and have sewn ourselves up.
I have heard we will never hear the end of it.
Nothing, she hissed. The audience cheered cautiously
For the Black Dane from Zealand. It would have sufficed
At what we are although I'm not sure what one
Is supposed to talk about while sober.
Add to that, I'm conspicuously not smoking here
On the fire escape next to that guy whose hair I remember,
Who stills writes papers due long ago, timing it so
Because he expected a riot and wasn't disappointed
When he saw the bruises on my cuticles,
Shaped in the symbol you had adopted: a black triangle.
He had sharp, daggerlike sideburns
And was raising his children as anarcho-primitivists.
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