Yes, I Would Like to Imagine the Self
as a bird or a plane far
from our abhorrent geometries. No
one has a box shaped like
a heart, a tambourine, a set
of bass notes properly equipped
for amplification. Together
we are still a you and an I,
a saint and a landscape
in miniature, a diorama
of dime-store bulls, of feathers
plucked from their birds
like the last note sung
by a hot mic inside of
a hot gymnasium. No.
When I see the sun I feel
no emotion as real as
anything chemical, as if
inside this skyline there is
no synonym for night.
