The way it feels
for the first quarter-minute
is a consolidation of all desire.
The begging, pleading, simpering;
the washcloth wring torsion
of pure, desperate need. It is
the chest-top deadweight
of snot wet sobbing. And
then because of this
raw, perfect concentrate,
it bows at the edges, inverts,
becomes a soft oblivion
that carries me with it.
The only image that can be lent
to this dispersion of self is
a syrupy version of glass
explosion; slow, ragged, gentle.
A submersion scene of a mirror—
breath fog-colored—caught
in a twinkling, sluggish shatter;
settling down to the invisible
bottom of a gold, hot bullion
suffusion. These slivers and
shards drift further apart
in an oddly geometric, hobbled
half-crawl for another twenty-six
seconds and there is less and less and
less of me. If I hadn’t thrown out
the liner notes, I’d know what
to call it.
(2004)
