Glue Richard Siken

I stepped out so things could progress without me.
The knot of the self; take it out. The know of the self:
what is the rope? The ability to nullify the self
in favor of the landscape, or a lover, or a bowl of fruit.
What happens when I no longer want to meet you?

Something interesting. A legitimate answer, but
it leaves a hole. Nothing lasts forever: we know this.
Looking changes the looker: we know this. It's easier
to talk about one thing at a time: I know, I know.
Mortal love? Sure. Lovers abandoned and desperate?

Sure. Longing and suffering? Of course, of course.
You want it to mean something. Sad pink cakes.
Five strange blue things. You want to have it glued
together. The days were short and the halls were long.
Something like that. Crawled up the pleat of my coat:

a shadow did. Shut the basement door: a ghost did.
It accumulates. Grounding the abstract offers several
pleasures: certainly. Love, maybe love, maybe
bathtub: certainly. Grabbing the throat of it: that's
what we always do. You can disconnect it or you can

try to glue it all together. He could glue it all together.
I could. Who's speaking anyway? Not really a problem,
says the moon. Since y'all look the same from up here.
We could pull it apart, spend our whole lives pulling it
apart and have no time left to do anything smart with