When I drove A. home after
his stroke, he couldn't hold it in
for the short drive to his apartment.
That's the origin of the stain
on the passenger seat of my car.
I hadn't noticed he'd gone
until, without saying goodbye,
he shut the door.
We lose control. Things go unsaid.
That's how things are.
I feel there is no end toward which my speech could point
And yet I protract myself
Into a future in which I curse and praise
The zero against which I measure myself.
About Medusa. No one sees her. She doesn't see herself. We know she's there by the blank
stares everywhere she's been. In the interstices of the poem, in
the caesurae, between the found lines, a portrait.
September. October. Immobile,
she is motive. Inert, she nevertheless acts.
Do not seek in the dust for a noble past,
for a handful, as much as a glance at her,
would petrify anyone. The air around her is corrupt.
As if she were the ghost of King Hamlet
started like a guilty thing upon a fearful summons,
she was about to speak
when she heard the rooster's crow,
and before she could see herself she was gone.
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