Dear Anna (for Suzanne)
Dear Anna,
I’m writing to you
because I like reality
so much so, here
the rapid flowering
of the image
replaces
a list I once made
things I refuse to do
I wanted to express
never really being
in my skin, truly
how illness
undresses us
you and me
what is that?
‘you and me’
if it’s intellectual
or anticipatory
what might be
no reference at all
It’s simply about
that word you use
‘labor’
being alone in labor
everything got
telepathic for me
endurance I feel
is a form of
consciousness
the awareness of
all that schooling
I mean time
curious openness
there is no
vulnerability
like it left
all you want
is your body
the moon blown
complexity
herbs that when
you eat them
there’s no more
slavery and
other oppressive
forces die out
that’s all, not less
a drum is beating
which asks
are you in pain?
is this the routine
we perform
when we feel
all of society
a complicity?
I didn’t ask myself
the problems
of freedom in love
but I always enjoy
signs of youth
hidden in myself
fragments drip
slobbering onward
where did I go
to experience
or denounce the viewer?
a shift big and boisterous
in some terrible way
I bargained
towards
being invented
