Perhaps we want to remove
the frame around the picture.
I can hear little clicks inside my
dream; How apt, I thought,
the frame around the picture.
I can hear little clicks inside my
dream; How apt, I thought,
how simply beyond repair.
Saint Lucy, you did not hide
your light under a basket,
begins one Catholic prayer.
Saint Lucy, you did not hide
your light under a basket,
begins one Catholic prayer.
We are strangled by bitter
light; we wrote a letter
to Jesus and lit a cigarette.
I’m making sense all the time
light; we wrote a letter
to Jesus and lit a cigarette.
I’m making sense all the time
of all the senseless endings.
In theory, memory is a theory.
This is where sadness lies. A
theory of memory is that I
In theory, memory is a theory.
This is where sadness lies. A
theory of memory is that I
expect memory to catch what
I drop, but instead it is me
on my knees picking up pieces
of fragments in my hands, laying
I drop, but instead it is me
on my knees picking up pieces
of fragments in my hands, laying
everything out to take an
inventory of what I now have.
It might be better if you didn’t
read this while I’m still alive.1
inventory of what I now have.
It might be better if you didn’t
read this while I’m still alive.1
1↑ Writing by: Mary Jo Bang’s A Film in Which I Play Everyone, Anne Carson’s The Glass Essay, Kimberly Grey’s Mémoire, Maggie Nelson’s Bluets, and Lewis Warsh’s Touch of the Whip.
