An Attempt to Become Sane

I.

Anyone can be clothed in red, anything
can be made out of blue
said the clock on the mantle,
counting
spoons of sugar and the
clockwise stir.
So what if you’re Sylvia Plath?
Everyone’s Sylvia Plath
more or less.


I can’t admit that I
drank art with my
coffee
and wore the timeline backwards.
I think it was already dead.


II.

This time,
the mirror said
your camera lied:
there is a box of clementines on the table.
Forgive me. I am a poet.
They were too good for words so
I eat tangerines now,
for the seeds.


I can’t help that
I don’t know what sfumato is
and some poet does.


III.

I think I’ll burn smokeless
this time,
said the candle
forgetting that it already had.
I’d play the piano instead, except
I hate the way
fermatas stare me down.

I can’t see music
like you do not.
I suppose I should pretend
my future is strung
across
the sounding board.


IV.

Here is something to do
without writing, and nothing says
loneliness
like going into
a photobooth alone
and making a museum of it.
I have lived in black and white,
which is more dramatic
really
than painting streetlamps in daylight.


I can’t mean anything
that you haven’t heard
already
disappearing into the vacuum
of history.
It is an exact science.


V.

You said I said child,
I am in love with the circus.
I said no such thing, except
let’s unbutton the present
and see if time is linear
or nonlinear
or nothing but
itself.

I can promise I can’t
let go of your hand
before you run
out of
ink.