even on blackheads and biers
The pleasure of caressing a disguise.
Ron backwards is nor. And so
this is what I see: 5 khaki-colored
garbage cans, maple and some-other
leaves, the wildlife here isn’t very wild
(what I can hear: a brook gurgling,
a generator generating). His finger
and thumb uplifted into a V,
he strokes the chin of his
mask. [Omission.]
The summer sky,
pale gray beyond the
window-screen. This
I see. Dander fluff
floating in the breeze,
a fly and a bee
(what I can hear: the trill
of a blessed bird, a father
calling for his child).
In a loft of utmost
pleasantness, overlooking
trees, naked, reading excerpts
of Ed Dorn’s Gunslinger.
A breeze beyond description
in its perfection
rises through the trees
(through the maple and some-other leaves)
and washes over my body,
through my hair, over my neck,
down my back, artfully disturbs the hair
on the backs my legs. The ever-slight
moan of a laptop and a harmonica
in the distance. “In the distance”
could be China, the dander rising slowly
and making its way over a mountain,
a Pontiac whose engine interrupts Eden,
a pimple on the corner of my forehead,
an obituary.
