Your self is a cosmetic
fiction, a centrifuge.
I stand there at the corner, known
by the equinox and knowing
nothing, exposed by the alethic
light of those apples,
that fearless crocus,
the magnolia tree, its chandelier
of tears.
You are not a god, though you are hostile
as a god, inhospitable and anonymous
as a metropolis, your grey and single-
minded industry transforming the shore
into yourself. Narcissism is not
self-love, but a mechanism of survival,
your cogs churning amorphous as maggots,
pallid as almonds, paper-whites, the high
notes of foam.
Your voice, an evening
in late June, ice losing
its edges in a jar of tea.
The sky bruised my eyes with rain's weight and my body was a held breath.
Warren HeitiThe iris of your fist
constricts.
Mute, I stumble through the dry, verdigris aqueducts of your eye, thinking this prayer, formic acid, ant spit and sandpaper: blink and I will be expelled, sharpen the edge of the water, subtract me from eternity.
Warren HeitiThe handless clock trying to hold
the hour of death, salt
in the last mouthful of water.
The windows opaque with silence,
silence stagnating in the wineglass.
Mots clés silence
The taste of chalk. The sun lays its copper thumbs on my eyelids. The radio plays the monologue of a dog. What is the formula for tomorrow?
Warren HeitiMots clés tomorrow
The mind is moored to others;
the wasps orbit on little tethers of light.
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