#70

At a party, I will meet new people. Cindy Sherman's photographs. See in a swarming motion the polygonal urges. Tiny, tiny cameras. Where light falls upon the precarious idol. The author signs his letter Stephen, and Melanie stands in the cold with a cigarette.

Auto-homage. Illuminate. Morning yoga, the body of Sofia wet with sun. Camera on floor. The sound of it. Closet wardrobe opposite the winter glass, and the tiny bed the animal's habit. Draw like an artist no longer. The graph paper journal Blake opened over coffee at the Nineteenth Street window.

Do your eyes detail? Ears wander over scars and bumps. Before, the word is an image, and after. A stack of comic books on my bedstand. Shirtless men and women prose. My mother's cane and the accident overseas. The men that flocked to hear. Take what doesn't burn and scatter it among the diamonds. We will run and stomp and fall as memory.