Rorschach (after Jeanne Marie Beaumont)
I spill water on the old coffee table.
Too simple. Grains expose themselves like privates.
It feels like the kind of wood - HA -
one searches for when lost in the forest. Dry.
That one stain from the burrito - think
about culture spilling forth like foam. Go on.
The bones of a cripple
left to bleach in the winter sun - taking way too long.
Crutches left in a church hallway, no souls around,
desiring to grab one and hobble forth newly less.
Not my table. Whose? A woman's, dead and ringed
by the ivory of dogwood blossoms, spring's crown.
Her face, sounding. A flute? Sure.
I said privates because this shouldn't be seen this way.
Count the rings - Kim Novak in Vertigo -
the scent of pine will fill and fill and fill.
Next. It sat in her townhouse
filled with its early 90s neon and chrome and whiteness.
Oddly cool. Not particularly desired
but the face of those men she dated.
And if I say "tree"?
I'd say - life we cannot fathom.
Tell me again.
A map. A map of the universe
breaking and disintegrating.