Issue 8

After Liszt

 · Poetry

I’m not the poet of hands
but I type just fine. It’s too late
to give up and die in the suburbs
bored and alone. As for Africa, well,
I’ve read Ross and her reinscription
of Rimbaud’s exile by
instrumentalized vagabondage
is convincing. I wish
these orphanage-builders
would take note. Watch out
for bone caves and Lazzeroni. Make way
for frothing blood. Go
Timberwolves, class ’09. Clouds float by;
we ask, Is it over a piazza?
I’ve never seen a piazza or a light and I
can hardly remember what a
daffodil is. Like diffidence, or
easiness. You smell it and
it pays you. If I am difficult to
“penetrate,” so much the better
for me; for you, a series of nails.
Flights and flights
and flights of stairs. Or roses,
I guess. You know, I get very
quiet, and then I get very enjambed.

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