This poem is from Matt Gavin Frank's newest collection of poems, The Morrow Plots. It's titled "Autoerotic Asphyxiation."
Now, please excuse Saint Marty. He's going to slip into the nearest bottle of Prozac.
Autoerotic Asphyxiation
The world goes pink with buffoonery,
billions of squirrels
running away. In their cheeks
acorns arrange themselves
like dog stars, wait
for the constellation
that looks like a camel.
A mesquite jealousy
in humplessness, the stockings
we save for just such an occasion.
We haven't spent
this much time here
since we were seventeen,
when mortality was a barking sky,
an animal a continent away,
this documentary
about Morocco. Like the squirrels
we move without headlights.
You speak equations
into my ear that would take
the stocking to solve.
Canicula. Ligature. In the next
room, we hear my father's
one sharp cough, wonder
if we're not breathing
enough.
Let's just prove how crappy my blog is, too |
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