at what distance
objects begin
to flatten
and thin
and collapse
into images.
And where
(in the wings,
the apron,
the proscenium?)
is this sort of thing
keen
to insist
upon happening?
*
tell me
you're clever
without being
clever,
or pathetic
without sounding
rude,
or human
without coming off
ruthlessly savage,
marbled
with decadent flecks
of absurd.
*
Everyone's heard—
a picture
is worth a thousand words.
But
just you try
writing down
or explaining
to them afterwards
exactly which ones
those were.
