Grotesque
I no longer need to understand the deception of atoms.
the spiral deconstruction that built the error
of the hot afternoons, sore backs
of monthly purchases and a family.
I already know what happens in this corner of the universe,
because I quit my job at the lighthouse
and undid the path of artificial light.
memory sofa.
a scarecrow driving away thoughts.
like flies that disturb the day
flying over the rotten table set.
do you see in the window the field with the crushed daisies?
see the sun's round, indifferent face?
and the indecent smile of time
licking the calendar weeks,
you see?
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