A collector of evil faces which she nonchalantly folds
And keeps in one of her thousand closets
Along with dusty tax papers and books in the language
She isn’t going to use anymore, she comes,
She who precedes silence barefoot,
With a simple note or just a sound or a soul
Of a wind lost in that closet, a sound endlessly twisted
Like the tail of an extremely happy dog.
Each ear, she knows, is blocked.
Each verb, she thinks, is a silly joke.



8 thoughts on “joke

  1. I thought the joke was that you somehow
    slipped your feet into socks once worn
    by Thomas Aquinas
    you who does not harbor sex or violence
    but walks around with aces and kings
    and queens and jacks in his pockets
    blindfolded you threw darts
    distinctive indiscretions (?)
    a pistol under your pillow


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