Modest disease of the desperate Pole.
Children do not end up like her. Mothers are
to advice as blackbirds are to blackbirds.
Selfish and folded up on the corner. Selfish
and alone in the corner. It is her I want to
share this little cigarette with. My philosophy is
how horrible it is to wake up in the morning. How
horrible to find utensils covered in moonlight, to
find her curled in the corner, there in the moonlight.
To squeeze myself past the modest cabinet. Past the
dread Pole dead in the apartment. Her indulgence. Look
how mothers touch mothers and all hear out the window,
there’s a dead drunk there in the apartment. Blackbirds are
blackbirds. Alone in the corner dying of moonlight.