Thursday, April 28, 2022


So you wish, 
more than anything, 
to see inside yourself.

But your soul 
has been shaped by decades 
of obscurity and remoteness,

by its desire for tight junctions, 
and its fetishes 
for rigor.

In fact, it compels you too 
to be desolate 
and stiff, 

bidding you to insist 
on silence 
in the library, 

and coercing you to stick 
to reading 
classic Russian literature. 

The only way 
for you to get 
a sense of its dimensions

is to treat it rough, abuse it, 
call it stupid now and then. 
Only then, 

when it swells up, 
reddens, and begins 
to accuse you—

as long as you're quick 
and surreptitious 
and discreet, 

and as long as you can resist
paying heed 
to its admonitions—

can you possibly hope 
to randomly glimpse its 
offended silhouette.