My irreproachable sense of logic states
that you cannot stand a drinking horn up
unaided, unless you are on soft ground.
Some books are so old that their provenance
is traceable only by smell – here words are subject
to subsidence, a being-shifting that transcends
meaning. Movement is the opposite of semiotics.
To read a book is to know its author, even
if that author is a dinosaur or a kite. I know you.
I know that like a jay there is a kinky blue nurse’s
uniform under the pinkish murk of your outer.
When you peel off your clothes and wash hurriedly
the shower room is like a winter birdbath or your body
is an ancient book (flicked through too fast,
flickering) that shouldn’t get wet but wants to.
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