sacrifices

I am not going to describe to you                      

water towers           the Rembrant

or the room    but maybe

the family of four     resting in the wall

a family of four     hiding in there

Took a video

My pale fingers find the drawer pull and click

I move to smooth   and to remember    that this is an art museum

It is making me do a dance

just sitting here        sort of working     on paper

I'm looking at the relaxed face of a woman

with a handgun in her purse

She parents gently                            evenly

as her daughter goes apeshit for a second

"We're all human. Give me the gun. All of these paintings

are worth shit when it comes down to life or death.

When it comes down to anything."

I was afraid of the photos at home

Fear makes people holy icons

Something sacred for some time, for now, later corrupted.

(I do flowers, tours, looking at families:

Its the little girls that break me up)

So comfort is the final stroke

a false wall from before

When I believed in something like something might come

When I wanted with a whole element

Made of me, me, me

You were there, in a sense

Unframed & out of joint, yet we

Connected in some way.

Justice is a human invention &

like so many of these       ineffectual

I am playing with violence in poetry

Because I am privileged to choose

It all looks like chaos apart from

The very tender      and the especially

concerned

I am not going to describe to you anything

surreal. I am trying not to abstract from this

role I occupy.

We cannot, through art or anything, remove our fantasy.

I am corrupt. I may be a killer. Stop. Come on.

Honestly, I wanted a child.