From one heap to another
after Brian Eno
In the spring, I scatter normal instruments
in secret locations.
The road home is formless, crowded; I weave
carefully through an out-of-sync marching band, whose feet
get stuck in the gooey, gluey mud. Not mine;
the trick is to never lower your soles down. Never touch and
you won’t adhere. Time for a drink, is it?
To be unafraid of the middle—now that’s cause for celebration,
the director says. Handing me an ice-cold
glass of something sweet. But I let it fall
on the technicolor turf and sprint away. My piece is off the board
—would anybody want it? The trumpet blurts wobbly
and faint behind the horizon line now. Fainter and gone. Yes,
I’ve learned to say no, but no, not yes. No more
path just one big directionless stretch under
the sun. At the center of a very small object.
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