Some of the elements of life
will survive microbial disaster,
will refuse to recognize us,
will come up to the newspapers
and affect a response.
Descartes found himself in the bright blue
strong wind of the northern climate. There,
the erratic queen demanded he give her philosophy
at five in the morning and, calling in a cold,
On this side of enlightenment,
a bald man combs
his remaining hair for the reading.
He cannot exhale himself
into someone else’s mouth. He and I
wish that fresh lemonade
sign were true. Nothing is
promised to everyone. Kant opened a door
he then closed. Still bruised where the watchface sits.
How do I get rid of miasma again? this scary beak of herbs?
stick to my bowler hat? a stick to whack your filth
away from me?
Life too near,
under the blanket, touchy with hate.
We lie in bed, hands on our stomachs like fat professors.
I am the unscathed lemon.
The sky of me.
The Swiss après-ski
of this face.
Healthy and here.
The nonce. The Entstehung.
How sudden then, as I turn to swoon out, nearly, could have, felt.
What did Dostoevsky smell before
his body betrayed him? Oranges?