Opinion | Pope Francis: The Covid-19 Crisis Reveals What Is in Our Hearts – The New York Times

2020
11/27
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    • dmf
    • November 28th, 2020

    Confession
    I haven’t got any.
    You had a wood floor.
    I lay on your floor.
    I don’t think I feel things,
    Why don’t I feel things?
    I got a phone call.
    Picked at my carpet.
    Picked at the blue salt.
    Everything is listening.
    I am not shaking.
    I could pick my hangnails.
    Start at the nail
    Triangle of skin
    Then a vertical dent.
    Long and then longer
    Curved down on the thumb.
    I can keep going.
    The worst is no hangnail.
    Skin to the core
    Pink and striated.
    Dig in my fingernail.
    This is my carpet.
    I didn’t pick it.
    Some color nubbed blue.
    Tugging out salt.
    City in my ear.
    I haven’t talked in months.
    What should I feel.

    —

    Adrienne Raphel

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Donna Fleischer Poet of indra's net

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in fairness ~

All poems and texts on this site are copyright of the author(s) and should not be used or reproduced in any form without consent, yet ~
keeping in mind the words of the poet Pierre Joris, ". . . I make the arrogant claim that the poet is possibly the last, in Robert Kelly’s words, ‘scientist of the whole… to whom all data whatsoever are of use.’ . . . The prerogative of the poet is to steal directly whatever is of use, without needing to theoretically kowtow via analysis, explicatio, critical cloning or proof of pc allegiance."

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Based on a work at donnafleischer.wordpress.com.
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