i wonder why
you glue my body
in water and newsprint
papier-mâchédkneesknuckles
neckandspineknotandstick
so before you wrap my eyes
in stories that i cannot read
i glance around your ruined room
lanterns and no light
cotton wool curtains and
mobile mermaids
mirrors with no image
i calculate your sewed-on buttons
that button nothing
and your illusory pockets
fashioned with fancy
your miniature tea cups
that hold but a sip of tea
your music box
that plays no tune
your collection of coins
(you’re a “coin-noisseur”,
you say, but even this word
is part of your collection)
your books
in languages you do not know
clocks with no needles
wax sealed treasure maps
with nowhere to go
my limbs are stuck
fragments of pulp
fiction lodged amid
your
mounds
of
art
and i do to you
what you do to them
i love you
with no reason.
Editor's Note.
In Idyllic (or IDLE-ic) Vermont, as the case may be, I spent a summer reading seven volumes of Proust and writing poetry. Why? I was asked by many. At my surprised glance back, the questions became more detailed: I mean, what is this for? What do you get out of it? Forced to answer, I resigned to the perfect eye-roll inciter: For the soul. Some appreciated the word's inherent lack of meaning and realized that I was purposefully (and paradoxically) taking time out to read for the sake of reading, to stretch time across a lake, leave it on a page, stuff it into a traffic cone. Others rolled their eyes.
Read MoreAlso in this issue
Illusion: Seeing Beyond Seeing
Meaning: In Search of Significance.
Melody: A Different Tune
Rhythm: Ordering Time