Enact a controlled demolition of the self. Then say: Adieu
to the death. All these years, and the city still hasn't been bombed.
The churches all stand still, though some have converted
into condominiums. On the sidewalk there’s the barcode
of ash that a bush burnt to cinder leaves behind. We are
cold packed, like river stones, a few neighbourhoods over.
The barest trees form the prettiest shadows. We’re bedding
down together. There’s an eye downstairs, in the living
room, watching the eleven o’clock news. The anointed one
kneels, vacillating. To be caught in flagrante, etc. To be un
covered, like an archaeopteryx at the mercy of steel dowsing
rods. Questions follow. How many hands does it
take to make light work and how many monarchs do you need
to topple a statue. Later you realize: There is no downstairs
and there is no living room. But there is always an eye. Later
still, someone says: Wait. That was the couple your hopes
were riding on? Me, I put a bet on every single horse in the
carousel. The writing, the wall, even the Constantine dream.
the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan
