Forget Rita

by Paul Killebrew

selected by John Ashbery

from Forget Rita

 

With the same slow tackle of seasons touching,
the morning pressed into the back of my eyelids
that opened with a car key's clang in a toilet bowl.
Hours later, not sure where the day got off to,
my whole head filled with time
that shot like a laser through my ear canals,
a thin jet of seconds in its wake.
Late last night I turned on my bedroom light
in an electric confession:
"I lie down to stand on my underside,
the ceiling another wall I can't walk to."
It's why she hates overhead light,
or an adolescent taking down the trashy poster
taped over his bed—we all prefer subtle ironies.

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