My Retinal Detachment
"Sometimes she walks through the village in her little red dress
all absorbed in restraining herself, and yet, despite herself,
she seems to move according to the rhythm of her life to come."
I've made the bed three times
and replaced my eye with a better voice.
Sotto voce. I've never been outside.
I categorically speak for the ants. This
time, I am measuring my belly with
a spoon and tinsel. I cut my thumb
open to bleed and open diaries.
I rush to pinnacles. Is there another
dog I can climb? I am redundant.
My head can't optically
connect and I'm carved up—floating. The gas.
It doesn't matter what it is called.
It's the guillotine for Re-Tina, Cor-Neah,
and Iris. Three sisters in their little red dresses.
Manic penetrations. Pregnant martyr walks
through the village of the pupa. Pupils, rest
on my concave lens. Deflating and dipped
tar—raisins plagiarized. A meteor shower
for the blind—my aurora borealis constantly.
Pat yourselves the umbrellas of the Spaniard
of my constitution, even de Leon can't
locate the theatre of my fountain.
I am not afraid that this sounds.
Appeared originally in Tin Lustre Mobile (Washington DC)