O, culture. You can't fill
a scrapbook with bullets.
It takes so many hours
to forget to fix the clock.
As the orchestra of frogs
prepares the instruments,
I'm reminded that I'm not
supposed to be in awe,
because it's all been done
before. The familiar isn't
supposed to be exciting.
(Unclasping the same bra,
kissing the same woman.)
O, culture. I wait.
The children's eyes
are covered--I wait.
Like the meat of a plum,
I hold onto the center,
because of magic, because
when the flesh rots, I know
there will be some-
thing left to cling to.
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