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Literary Anecdote Under Pressurized Skies
On the floor I think of that famous
photograph of Dostoevsky where
he slumps in great coarse coat.
His face a mask of dark weariness.
I am a mean man, a sick man.
Prison, seizures, drink. A thunderhead
approaching, these thoughts.
In his breast pocket a single folded sheet
where he pinned in weak script his impossible debts.
O Red Mass Rendered from Spitting Fats
My severed! Lonely, apart!
Rough-edged, bloody!
Where did you go? More important:
what did the blossoms say?
I bought the milk and eggs like you told me to.
Then my ghost, my clown
sundered your chest like a mildewed ice-box.
Then I climbed out from the river.
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