Head In a Box
I find that if I cut a lens-size hole
in a cardboard box then place that box
over my head
at night,
the stars form new constellations;
strangely, they can jump time and space
to shine within my eyes.
I find that when I peer through
that eye-hole cut in the box,
that both good and evil
seem to live together, coupled
by the closeness of their separation.
In the box, I find myself
to be almost happy for you.
Love and hate fade in and out,
upon your features
as your face glows darkly angelic.
I find that if I see a dead raccoon
on the road I think
of the Jewish prayer for the dead,
maybe it’s the pajamas they wear,
they only wear half-pajamas, but then
I am only half-Jewish.
Most concentration camps
are left open. You never can tell
which abandoned blood-stained factory
once was a death-camp or perhaps
will be again.
I find myself (when head in a box),
to be the ghost of everyone I have
ever seen from a distance;
close-up the box hides everything.
The carboard box has the power
to see scenes of ecstasy and horror
as one moment repeating itself
over and over aging,
and the peephole is always
too small to tell the difference.
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