Monday, January 14, 2008

Lamentation

it is sterile as a doctor's office Newsweek--
floral, stiff upholstery, latex, peppermints, etc.--
that look of unadorned content which
radiates toxically
from between your temperedly gazing eyelids.
a compromise, a lost little girl,
astray in the Clorox-bleach desert
swirling with many unspecified insects,
with scorpions, owls clutching their formerly
furry life-mourning prey, mice
in this thin dry chaos of
cactus and rocks which you
sadly pretend is paradise;
you have a perfectly magnetized compass
(in your sidebag, middle pocket,
neither the smallest nor the largest;
i put it there)
but i note with a helpless anxiety
how you deem yourself too innocent for even
direction.
perhaps a storm of dust will clear your eyes.

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