Please hear me out. I am the spirit of
the stapler in a castle full of paper doves.
I do not believe my fears are yours.
I cannot move a leaf just by thinking it,
as you can. Yet I find boredom becoming
and I lie a lot. I lie among the
leaves I move just by thinking it.
But I fail at oases. Suffering
from yet another favorite on a sea
of happiness, my legs give out,
my arms, my voice, mainly because
I will it so. I cannot swim. The bird
I become flies through my eye, into the
tunnel of O
directly in front of me, and I am in
good spirits. I listen intently
to various sexual engagements
transpiring within and without. I am
asymptomatic, rearranging furniture,
trying to make new ways. I’ll be
watching a lot of this without eyes.
Having however a new tongue, in
decipherability the appropriate language.
For correspondence. My supplies
have transformed, are even less alive,
and yet more covetable. You have
been to this place or somewhat nearby.
Please let me take you with me. To where
I will not go. There. We’re here.
