Thursday, July 7, 2016

DENIAL

Since I'd seen you last, you said
you'd grown
gradually blinder 

and blinder
to the wonder 
of rising and 
setting suns. 

Then, you said you started
to smell things
a lot more intensely
than you heard them

(which was alright, since, 
on an absolute scale,
intensity was 
the same as pleasure)

and that 
the tang of renunciation—which tasted,
you said,
like sterilized metal,

both
mundane 
and super-
natural—

started feeling strange-
ly second
nature in your mouth.

Eventually, 
something 
even more obscure failed you,

but it didn't matter,
since you no longer 
depended upon it.
You said—

you couldn't
put your finger on it.
You said—
you could only 

call  it—
specificity.

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