A human being has no purpose
thus everything one does
is metaphor, I guess,
& some attempt to counterpoint
the adenoidal hum of time
with syncopation of one’s own—
& I’ll admit I like the poem
for its casual insistence
on the weirdness of—for instance—
standing in the post office on Tenth
& Sixth, between classes,
adjusting to detail, to local flavor.
The usual sunlight buttressing
the upper windows & a little dust
suffering a pummelling
from millions of invisible atoms
as the queue inches forward,
& stops.
Behind the counter Layla squints
like a village judge & bawls out
the man in shorts who hasn’t filled
the form in right & a large part
of me is transfixed by all of this
thisness, & I feel like I’m
new here, sometimes,
like I’ve just come out of hospital
or been in the forest for too long,
& don’t remember what stamps are
or my own name, & Layla
is enraged when I tell her
I could post this anywhere:
Budapest, Kathmandu, Ballyhackamore;
to you, or you, or, no, not you.
