Still one last farmhouse of feeling (but how tiny)*

Blacken what I see of my landscape and spill

yourself in every last dream.

Smile with your head against a wall, or with my head,

placed on your body with precision.


Smile with different faces:

bland, brooding, then blind—the topography changes.


Only a change of category could persuade me out of bed,

and there your faces were

together, repugnant

their points and the selfish coins in your pockets

the nasty eyes

the invisible claws of your derision.


One’s quick to offer; one’s quick to trust.


And to crawl,

knees to chin, orifices plugged, having won this one.


*credit to Rilke


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