all of those pictures would have told me nothing.
it would have crossed my mind to turn off the oven.
I know an 82-year-old painter who has sketched nothing but ovens.
I would rather be swimming with your wife.
this is not meant to be funny. I think that we would have
in a pearl grey sky. you would dangle bits of string from a blue bridge,
we would sit with all the lobstermen and watch you finally feed yourself.
you would wipe your
mouth on one of the lobstermen’s sleeves.
I will swim far far off into the grey ocean until I become a perfect
where you have always wanted to go.
We live in a granular universe, best governed by those men sleeping in the parks. One of them, I believe, is dying. On a green bench above him, and others like him, sits one of the sleeker homeless, his back flawless sienna, his eyes sharp still, his teeth in tact (This I can only surmise. I have not seen his teeth.) The dying man lies on his side. His ribcage juts, thrusts, leaps skyward. And this, this is the way to die.
On other patches of grass, in the same group, there are fatter men,
but these are not so fat as the stereotypically bald capitalist.
The true proletariat have
no haunches. These men are only fat by comparison to the gaunt man reaching
in his sleep. These others sleep too, but they will wake soon,
shuffle through their
paper bags, hitch their britches up. I do not know what they will do with
a dead man.