if the eye is a small projector
then the jagged wheels move perforated
brain ribbons while harlequins, clowns, all
clueless synonyms of a slap
present with the body so well known to me
the quiet and medicinal water of darkened Venice.

that’s the way the body lands again
its first, forgotten fatherly blow.
that’s the way a hobbyist-surrealist
enjoys his corruptible intimacy.

your rheumatic knees
forgive for a moment their ultimate fate.
annie lennox sings: jennifer. unless
an idiot, everybody understands that.
you say
my back is the empty flick-side
of a dollar ad out of which street
artists cut live silhouettes.

I’ll send you a postcard of my naked back
for holidays, for holidays, a musical postcard.
I heard, my unhemmed break-dance stocking
that is the soon-to-come sabbath.