Paris Poem

Form is a fetish, but it’s a sin to live as if. In my twenty-sixth year, I became a believer in private property, or rather private property became a believer in me.

Wax melts in a dark room. We have learned to love sovereignty once again Victoria! Now show us your stuffed squirrels playing cards in a glass case.

Let me drink it off, this fin-de-fin-de-siècle. All the systematic theology in the world won’t put this night back together. Great underwater lung, breathe. I swim through canyons, your bra-strap my life-boat. Ballerinas ride bicycles on the shore.

The coach was not, in fact, a ghost of your late father. There were boys from Kenosha drinking champagne. Wind blows, up comes the dust. In the dream we were hunters, and on waking we knew it was true.