My Jacobs of Weariness

To Artur Sandauer   Higher                reveilles of shape                                habitations of touch               all weathers of the senses . . .    Lowest — I          the staircase of reality          rises from my breasts.   And I feel nothing. Nothing succulent. Nothing colorful.          I’m not only not          a testament hero I’m worse than a flounder          glued to the river’s deathbed          with bunched balloons of breath          fleeing upwards worse than a potato mother          who sprouted vast antlers of roots          herself wizened          almost gone Smite me oh construction of my world!!

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