Everyone carries a room about
inside them. This fact can
be proved by means of the
sense of hearing. If someone
walks fast and one pricks up
one's ears and listens, say
at night, when everything
roundabout is quiet, one hears,
for instance, the rattling
of a mirror not quite firmly
fastened to the wall.
- Franz Kafka
Another Saturday
blooms itself into libation.
I find my own vertigo to
flare into periscopes quickly
upon gazing out the window.
Siren-light looked astray,
breaks apart into Quixote's
tilt-a-whirls upon the wall
past your countenance. The rattling
of typewriters from the next room
follows a strictly prescribed pattern,
except for several words. "Mister" or
"Missus," depending upon the recipient,
"son," "father," or "husband" depending
on the subject. Meanwhile, a grave
silence has shown its face, yours
hides scowling behind a cable bill.
Your carpet quickly becomes
a vast desert, although only I and
your dog seem to recognize it. "Cerberus,
Cerberus," I call. He dips his head into his bowl. Hades,
you show your face in subtle ways. I scratch him behind the ears.