The Dangers of Reading Poetry


From the unpublished collection: These Vicissitudes of the Epithelium

Francis Ponge, 
Francis Ponge
and I am moved to reach for my notebook
I settle back in bed
the pillow 
I flip 
into my lap
hits the pen 
protruding from between 
my lips
knocking it 
to my lap
black ink 
on my leg
I also jerked my head back, banging it against wall
with a loud 
my tongue tasting 
and worrying the swelling
should I laugh or cry?
then you came in 
and I can't tell you what just happened
kissing to see if you can taste my blood
I know you may not think it is much,
but it's poetry
I remember
running my hand over the page
pressing down
trying to feel the words
in the stories, 
hands which emanate both humanity, and mortality 
momentarily still, silhouetted against the words
therein lies my soul
somewhere within the protruding veins
and knuckles
my head hurts
I can convince myself of many things
gazing at my left hand
one gold ring binds us, my left hand, my right hand you and me.