I don’t want to pull out my pocket knife
I want the knot to detach itself
That is the recalcitrant tangle
With no contribution from me
Self-conscious as always stingy as always
I keep turning to the left
As if imprisoned on a racing course
Drawing inferences concerning
Crustaceans and the different trees
Exotic characters and amorphous glass
Does a single node define the figure
Does the ordeal of fame define significance
Drain holes appear on the pathways before me
That rhyme with the drain holes in my brain
Alleged remedy for concealment
I don’t want to pull out my crocheting hook
My bookmark or the public fountain
I want to attach the status quo ante bellum
To finish the synecdoche
As if firing it in a kiln
Though letting go is easier than reputed
Plaques and tangles abound
Nobody public is listening that’s a good thing
Not even myself
I don’t want to pull out the trading cards
That some company tried to puff to exaggerated value
Not because of the righteousness of my cause
To be thoughtful of others
Whose own thoughts remain unknown
But only because of the credible shortage
There are shoes at the front door
Of the neighbors’ house
They must have organized their exaggerated readiness
The unknown does not imply a concealment
Nor silence an attitude of parsimony
If the dialectical materialists have relinquished
Their insistence upon the metamorphosis
Of the status quo
At least dependency on typography
Has declined
The small enameled box
Object of impressive solemnity
Whoever should undergo the famous ordeal
Will assume the title of Emperor by acclamation
I however keep turning to the left
Emblem of the pains of sleep
I’m not even myself
Cliffs and shocks abound
The landscape an abundance of confused categories