Tuesday, December 12, 2017

KILLING ONE BIRD WITH NO STONES

Intercourse—a word like this
fits nicer,

permits a more comfortable, every-day
sort of constriction.

The veneration
of all of those books on the shelves,

the projection of another you
who reads them;

then,
the playing chess against yourself,

and the folding more clothes
than the both of you own—

gradually,
something is being torn down;

a license is revoked,
a structure

is demolished.
And yet, slowly

One heals—re-learns
after the explosion,

somehow, to once again
throw—only, this time

a little less
than one's hand is holding.

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