a giant crab
in the sky above Tokyo
whispers compassion —
—John Ashbery
There is no English
for the song in my head
that popped up when I
recovered.
The fingers made the
strings of the beautiful
guitar emit sounds that
were ethereal.
The entire world was
rapt. I asked the eaves-
droppers of the very tall
videos to come sit with me.
Their flips were quite
confusing at first. But
then each one held my
hand to a conclusion.
Here was a guy explaining
something about, maybe,
dancing; my Indian
heritage.
He said “The Condolences Book
is for nerds.” I said I loved
nerds. I failed to say that
I am one. What is nerd?
But I cannot stop wanting
just to feel something.
When I write that I don’t feel
anything. Writing not righting.
The urgency of the moment.
Instant camera. The polaroid
of the day. What’s
confusing?
Time as an instrument to detect
quality. The irritability of
instantaneous. Identity.
Feeling terrible.
I am unidentified
in the sky at night.
Feeling blue. Say-
ing “I do.”
