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Light Bulb: Lares
Not clear to my soul. The ways to it clogged
With a debris of cage: booths, chairs, walls that dogged
Shadows I hunted day in. Or worse, the ways overgrown
By these objects, which are as much flesh as my own;
I sit, a chair-like object in a chair,
Read by the light bulb, whose paralysed stare
Tricks the small pretensions of the place.
Gestures of a room: the servant face
Of tables; cigarettes that would be human and whistle
Something under ashes; myself; curtains like wrists
That hesitate a sentiment but fail
Against the crucial dark and the arrested hail
Of lights that ward the city.
Mazda! Mazda!
In the next state, which is mountainous, a river
Smoulders continually over winged drums
Whirling toward accidents of wire and partial vacuums.
Something, it is not water, diminishes,
Comes burning to this far-off emptiness.