When I do the dishes I think too much.
I think of the way objects accumulate as a kind of representation
of an individual mind.
A projection of my American intellect.
Intellect that feasted until the whole brain
moved into decline,
until it stopped forever
its fanatical growth
and settled down at twenty-three
to a permanent size.
Now my intelligence is a line of hieroglyphs,
a blouse fluttering.
I am barely able
to breathe. I cannot appreciate
rain on my bike. Or stand
on a balcony for too long
without throwing something off of it. My mind
walks slowly across the abyss.
My mind thinks of itself as a shipwreck.
My intellect is like a grist of bees
in secluded forest.
My mind rides hard with horses
under a sky and moon
that issue chromatic variants of white.
finishes you. Love’s cigarette lit
in love’s one free hand reading you a poem
that begins: must then all humans love like this?"