historian: this body of work to be studied
Or it can be something else entirely.
As the key sticks I can't write, the story
i'm lacking a train route
and just filling out the questionnaire /
in the yoga class, breathing Ardha Padmasana,
& tell me how
I'm going to breathe with no head?
label the provinces:
a bee once stung me on the nipple there
In a pink nightie and dark velvet smock
Go like this, and you'll see its little nose
and trimmed wings
I had three names picked out –
and a pyre, much more poetic
do you belong here. turn toward the asteroid belt
Who knows what stirs behind the small splinters
your head like a mixing bowl
it looks nothing like you
its a kind of fish icecream. big in
nonfood circles.
I hear the nurses calling
two more harpsichordists quarantined.
Sometimes, not enough,
There's a taste, —. –. a taste of paint.
white paint is medicine.
I didn't mean to be an artwork.
Pull out a folded handkerchief
It's always the edges that get blurry.
Barthes' kleenex box
visitors will bring food and gifts
an accent on elocution lip-reading
when the camera breaks down, smile and reshape.
In a forest of blue trees it's easy to feel lost.
From the Interior: Poems 1995-2005 by Petr Borkovec
