Let this one clear square of thought be just like a room you could come to in. An attic room, after you've swiveled over to the wrecked corner of the champagne. After you hand-rolled cigarettes and ass and sold your best midnight speech to a slick jack of clubs. For a stingy cut: a wet, bony kiss. You have nothing left to say and nothing to say it with. Mouths, whole faces even, have been pilfered in prettier ways. For everyone who ever looked at you and thought that one thinks its so damn easy, you don't have to look back at them. Ha! It is easy. This room has no mirror, no leap-leer to strain or stylize the fuzz of your body through the razor of your eye. This room is dark, and high. If you spit out the window you could kill a bug. There's the document. There's always the window, your signature. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ASPATIA'S SONG, FR. THE MAID'S TRAEGDY by JOHN FLETCHER ON THE RUINS OF A COUNTRY INN by PHILIP FRENEAU TO THE ONE OF FICTIVE MUSIC by WALLACE STEVENS FAREWELL TO SUMMER by GEORGE ARNOLD |