There is a room in the cathedral called
"The Quiet Room."
Imagine.
Its entrance, this body too shaky
for comfort.
Janus, god of doorways and beginnings,
when I desire nothing,
I just lie in my bed and faintly squeal
like something defrosting.
True story
the woman's suicide note read:
"Out of Toilet Paper. What's the use."
I laugh, but then shiver so deep
I suspect there is a train
inside me,
one of the first dark locomotives
to cut across the Great
Plains and divide something
previously whole.
Have you ever tried to pick something up
that you think is heavier
than it really is?
Something embarrassing
about death, stairway that invents its
steps.
In Heaven your mind
ohms and opens, but the rest of you
has that tremulous, erotic
feeling of swimming in a lake at night.
In the end of the Bergman film Wild Strawberries
an old man wakes up thinking of a fond memory
and smiles.
And that's it. The end.
