When I take the persona of a lover who says he wouldn’t mind in the slightest if I were to be social with someone else, my palm suddenly dampens. But that sensation does not make me an actor.

Every dancer worth her cumin knows where she is in space. I, on the other hand, wonder how I got here. When I try to move, I stumble over a barstool someone has left by the bed.

The painter parses tubes of viridian, carmine, and ultramarine, like birds he is about to release. I mix red, blue, and gambouge like a frenzied kindergartener, and end up with mud.

I may, however, be a poet. I am merciless enough. Every day I tear limb from limb sheets of paper I know to be completely innocent.

for Zbgniew Herbert

Printed from Cerise Press:

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