My lower back is a broadband disentegrating.
Some sporadic gesture of a last tic,
stiff and stuck in signals.
Such a range of frequencies
you can hear a small woman firing herself
inside a stove.
My premature self
can't bend. My fancies
crumble. Like the dish of leftovers.
Inside the shrink-age
woman inclined downward,
examines the powder of a dinner,
the particles themselves liberated
from a chicken-livered
casserole prison.
She may live. To make coffee tables
of the charred blocks. Serve herself
tea of soup droplets. Go for a steam.
Or a mud bath of ash. To renew the skin
in a parameter of gray. Its wall of speckles
may even remind her of a Robin's egg
she kept from falling in the lightening
of early noon.
And it might be that now she is
floating maybe
above someone's waste basket
in a country office off the Rhineland.
Or above the cities glitter which somehow
thrills and aprons her....
Observes her with magnified
orbs. So that she is now blind
and drifting without our shadows.
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