Sunday, March 2, 2014

Capote

I am adrift on a four-cornered raft,
clutching a typewriter to my bruised chest.
I tie my eyes to the flat horizon, eat little,
demitasse spoons of pablum and false cheer
pressed to my lips.

I curl my tongue, l’enfant terrible,
spit poison that burns my cheek,
pull darts from between my teeth,
cough up piles of tersely whispered lies;
handfuls to pass between your prison bars,
to fill your tin cup, seal into envelopes,
braid into your uncombed hair.

At night I float from room to room on an unmade bed,
eyes open to the wide seascape of ceiling,
the terrifying expanse of white stucco, unintelligible.

I sweat out my nightmares
wrapped around a jelly jar of gin
and the memory of your eyes.

The cold light of dawn uncovers my remains,
disrobed and wan:
palmfuls of slivered glass,
and the memory of your eyes.

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