TE15 Lithuanian Honey Cake

eight poems

of the windowsill and doors (closed to people) the warm skeleton of the radiator and the window through which nothing is seen but the bark of a pine burning at evening I roll up the skin of canvas wallpaper I push up the walls (push them bending with moans) so that linen veins pulsing in silence would expand (as before the bloom) and the bone of silence would crack I floor it with linoleum snake-skin floor and roar (and I roar) looking at fish-eye suns and black pharynxes (for they have swallowed me) and snouts – unclimbable vertebrae and the blue scales of ceramic brick I roll up the walls and roll out I ride (riding without a saddle – armed with red crayon – to mark the scalpel’s path) through the city’s leprous neighborhoods with polystyrene squares – which even now peel back smiles peeling off the ceilings like the sky from god’s feet and fall opening up all that is imperfect – the sutures of concrete blocks


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