I'm going to the library. I bind
my self just like a book, just all these words
associated, endless strings of grammar
in a foreign dialect. I see
the pages or the leaves, I am unsure
if these are narratives or trees. I'm going
somewhere that the brands and memes of old
are hiding, somewhere that tangles of thought
are stored to affect others. I can see
the shelving, a piano in the corner
is sitting there. She moves on top of it
in a seductive dance, her hips sway right
and left, her belly undulates composing
verse in the bound chapters of my eye.
No comments:
Post a Comment