I am tormented by simple things,
things no one seems to think
about: the touch of a foil butter packet,
a bonsai’s shadow,
my mind rotting like a tangerine.
Lying in bed on the edge
of dawn, listening to the river’s voice
and the last bird in the world,
the darkness standing
over me like a high priest.
I turn the TV on.
A light fills the room with brass rings.
Dreams of transmutation.
A politician promising the impossible
to a mass of people convinced they’re going to live forever.
I snap the TV off.
Lie here on my back,
the covers like a guillotine across my throat,
dawn awakening on the walls.
I am agonized by apparitions,
but this is the power I draw from.
This is the place the olive tree
puts on the fragrance
and joy finds the heart of the last bird in the world.
This is where dizzy
opulent spheres murmur in the darkest
corners of the soul.