Enduring

these long lonely days

at my southern retreat,

as a self-appointed accountant

of diaries

and other corps de ballet

of life,

I feel how easily and inevitably

the present and actual

transforms into “periods”

and “temps perdu”,

taking on atmospheres

of the past,

as the seasons turn

from autumn to winter,

and I'm informed that some tall old trees

on Anna's farm up north

are taken down

as storm precautions,

and that the migratory birds

leave frigid empty spaces up in the sky,

and as aches and sentiments, and modes of exercise

change,

and the pile of texts I'm here to record

turn thinner,

but crave much more time

than I had envisioned,

while impermanence,

with all its flickering shapes

and shreds of voices,

remain all that remains

The house stands

in the pale and cold

Inside it

my body lies

under a heavy Indian blanket,

without thoughts,

Shostakovich's 12th String Quartet

out of the speakers

Inside my body

the life-sustaining processes

take place

All my life

they have keel-hauled me

through an ocean of perception

I was clothed in a skin-suit

with a tight fit,

without ever being asked for my signature

on any legal document; a dermatologic assault

The snow cover wraps about the day

like civil disobedience

Hour upon hour line up,

tall fridges in everyone's mindset

In the black downtown holes

of major cities,

inbred artists, hiding from the public eye,

feed on conceptual art