After the Angelectomy

And where my organ of veneration should be—

wormwood and gall. Grudge sliver.

Wailbone, iron, bitters. I mean to say the miniature

waterfalls have all dried up in this miniature

place where day is duty cubed, time is time on task

and every mind optimized for compliance.

Time to delint my black denim traveling stuff.

The flourescent major highlighter has dimmed

to minor. I'm so dying I wrote

when I meant to write so tired.

And when I sleep I dream only that

I'm sleeping. Please see my black stuff's

dusted off. Night has no dilution anxieties,

but only the infinites are happy:

Math. Time. Everything happy goes

to many decimal places

while flesh passes through

gradations of glory. I visualized it,

the nurse said of the bedsore. Everything exists

at the courtesy of everything else.

Please see that my grave is kept clean.

Beloveds, finite things

in which the infinite endangered itself,

excarnate to memory and the divine substance

has limited liability. You're kind,

I tell the infinite. Too kind.

Source: Barely Composed (W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., 2015)