In dorm rooms the students smoke their pot,
Blogging of T.S. Eliot
I have abandoned cotton, relinquished wool,
packed all comfort tight in giant, Ziploc bags
so full that oxygen can’t wriggle in. No warmth
possible down inside where memories
of soft and tender sleep now lie.
All must be angle, memory and light.
Diamond cut and water cooled. I circle, ever wider,
mind on horizons, focused outward.
I shove aside all coverings, all sheets of conscience.
Freakish, ending-blind,
beginnings – who cares? Moment is the tinder,
dry, fast burning, instant upon instant. Feeding
eyes. Lidless, without mercy, without voice. Orbs of sky
blue, bottle green, remember nothing they
have seen, nor ever cry.
Stretched out, now, perfect, in my skin
and hair, my nails, sweat, spit, bone, blood,
everywhere, blood. Thin as water, nearly
clear, and spread flat out, I drip it down
in waves too trivial to hear.
Circle me, circle, from above.
I ask
nothing
as I bleed liquid glass,
nothing but this relentless glance
I assign myself instead of love.