It’s that pleasure of cold, salt,
that light carbonated sugar—
alcohol and silence, remembrance—
an implied comfort, familiarity,
strangeness; I wanted to be there.
Sitting—here—in an empty dive
where any somebody could be
nobody because everyone
is preoccupied with nothing.
The music is melancholy—
how I imagine you are.
But you are here, loud as fear—
you are danger and genius
and should be thrown out.
That is why I’m calling—
I’ve had too much to drink
and I’m alone until you appear.
You are a coupling of synonyms,
so much recursion, cogitation.
I know you like me, that’s why
you got here so fast, silvered—
everything moving around you
even at a distance, smaller,
the less precise, a little distorted,
bending to catch your attention.
Even me. I’m here and there
following myself around you
as I circle my you in that gazing
globe, the black eye-well ink,
inside the dark dive, even
if it is just a drunk illusion.
Avoiding Conversation at a Bar: Or, Recalling “Hand with Reflecting Sphere”
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