Tuesday, March 19, 2013

of this poem (unfurnished)

1. the room of this poem: i know you came here because you wanted to feel better. we all do. it's a natural response. the first refuge, the ultimate sanctuary. what happened to the velvet cushioned couch, softly sprung? where is the cozy lamplit nook? the fuzzy blanket?

2. the paper in this poem:

find the paper crumpled and then uncrumpled
pressed smooth over the edge, rubbed down
ink shaved off through these repeated launderings
is it cloth or paper      so worn smooth, translucent
if you look, you can see through me too, lighter 
than lace or gauze, thin fog made thinner by the 
fabric/paper that thins rubbed down and disappears

one word hanging in the dust of the tender fibers left
as everything passes into nothing, slowly
or quickly

that word that's left, the word in the dust that was fiber that was
words written on paper, the words that the dust of us makes
before blowing off, that's the name of this poem
unreadable, illegible, everywhere present

3. the timbre of this poem: this poem is barren. without comforts. you came with expectations, unresolved parameters, a desire to be different than you are. stop it. accept your sudden and abiding grief, how you've been destroyed. there are no soft edges here. there is no resolution. there is no comfort for you. is it just a large white space, unfurnished? there isn't even anywhere
to sit down.

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