Cinémathèque

I mean, who isn’t heating up for the next life

on the order of Antoine Doinel, or a pot of unsweetened chocolate.

Beginning with a single window and the sense

that what we know outgrows everything except a headache

or the desk dreaming on its own. It doesn’t matter

if being upright brings living beings closer to

the lives they lead (one’s 26-year-old self smokes a cigar

but isn’t a desperado) nor is beginning a poem with

someone’s wrath a means of stepping outside the Self

as though volume equalled flesh tones — any more than the Epic

of the Roast Chicken with Lyonnaise Potatoes and Greens

takes over the above-ground, colors and smells aside.