[Blue Bed, Yves Tanguy]
Cross mats meet my view.
They rush to assault in their twisted, broken-down lives,
to do I don’t know what. Hair
tangled and dirty like the dirty girl of the street,
huddling atop the air vent over the subway. Cracked at the base,
life wracked in the open air, continues at the root,
but for how long? The hills are scabby growths,
their itches ignored. Who cares that they judge us?
We, trash heaps pushed aside for a new load,
we, current droppings of houses patched together
at hills’ foot. The murk of the ravaged hill stares
at me lifeless as a broken arm, passsive, flung wth
the breeze. There’s no telling where it might twist. It
could fly off and and the town would wizen to a
wrinkled amputee, the lost arm not even retrieved.
Sew it back on? Why bother? It gangrened long
ago and is useless. Death is here to stay.
It is your neighbor, and mine. Only to look up to the hills
and see God’s curse on us. We live sanctioned
by ravaged snaps of spines, spindled to toothpicks,
shoved to the bottom of the holler
imprisoned in whorled woods, shackled lke shabby strays
from the main pack. And we hail our neighbors
every day like some terrible family, its special breed
of disease. I have been unhappy here.