Pak Choi; Bring me Back
In empty buildings
With similarly empty others
I let a withered organ rattle round the rapture of an empty cavity
The grass wilts and shrivels
With livers given
Unfair hands from self-shuffled decks
X
So I’ve slipped into routines well routined
And show irrelevant things to irrelevant people
To weave a tapestry that, when looked upon backwardly
Might seem to indicate an existence, an identity — somebody there
Dasein
An irony that I’ll gobble up
As ‘aloof’ anathema (once), turns (now) to powder
X
I am aware, acutely
That every alignment (or that which I considered that) has happened
Under the disinterested gaze of a burning star
(The sun, a hot day)
(Well why didn’t you just say that then?)
(I don’t know)
X
And then that blind God which consumes its own young
Gropes after me in arid dusty air with
Mandibles twitching
Like she does every midweek morning