Others do a version, a
trompe l’oeil of affection, not
showing the crack,
in a narrative of love and climate menace.
In writing a book on the mind as organ, one can
begin to regard the mind with dispassion as lacking
authority so that the thoughts that
populate a rant pointed at you begin to float.
I do not have to believe thoughts,
neither is there only reason
to think with. Once toy soldiers of mind
are on my counterpane I become the bed
that cares as a matter of course.
I want the rest of the page, please.
mais oui, madame.