The interior holds out its leathery hands.It wants to take me to CaliforniaWhere technicians will construct my head,And where the streetlights are broken yolksAnd small furry things crawl up my legs.
I decline the offer so the interior flips a switchWhich makes my teeth cold as thoughI am eating ice cubes in luminous fog.I eat the ice cubes and the city evaporates.Rain clouds swab my eyebrows with sleep.
A bee lands between me and the interiorWhere a thicket has sprouted up.When I step inside I lose the ability to thinkBut my ability to blow suddenly into a thousand piecesSeparates me from the interior which
Trembles like a newborn lamb.Poor interior, it is only a pink thingPuking out breast milk. It is only thisPersuasive reflex churning inThe darkening hole of myself.
O Interior! My wounds are your wounds!I drizzle them over your outstretched canvasAnd drill holes so the light will reach us onThe other side where a canola fieldIs waiting to wrap us in its breath. [End Page 130]
Dear Interior, I have no interior!I am a shaved head turning into a field of breath,This is the final birth and when the windStarts spinning a circle of leavesAn invisible man leaps out of the center. [End Page 131]
When I suck on the mint I haveThe sensation that there is a hotelIn my chest and it is my duty
To clean the linens and vacuumThe hallways which are linedWith Louis Quatorze mirrors.
The guests wear red tightsAnd smoke tobacco from the colonies.When they fall asleep they evaporate
So I am left with these flame-shaped curtains.I draw a bath and snuff the candle.I am so bored with feeling. [End Page 132]
Nathan Hoks is the author of Reveilles and The Narrow Circle. He lives with his family in Chicago where he runs Convulsive Editions.