After the Angelectomy

And where my organ of veneration should be—
wormwood and gall. Grudge sliver.

Wailbone, iron, bitters. I mean to say the miniature
waterfalls have all dried up in this miniature

place where day is duty cubed, time is time on task
and every mind optimized for compliance.

Time to delint my black denim traveling stuff.
The flourescent major highlighter has dimmed

to minor. I'm so dying I wrote
when I meant to write so tired.

And when I sleep I dream only that
I'm sleeping. Please see my black stuff's

dusted off. Night has no dilution anxieties,
but only the infinites are happy:

Math. Time. Everything happy goes
to many decimal places

while flesh passes through
gradations of glory. I visualized it,

the nurse said of the bedsore. Everything exists
at the courtesy of everything else.

Please see that my grave is kept clean.
Beloveds, finite things

in which the infinite endangered itself,
excarnate to memory and the divine substance

has limited liability. You're kind,
I tell the infinite. Too kind.

Alice Fulton, "Claustrophilia" from Barely Composed. Copyright © 2015 by Alice Fulton.  Reprinted by permission of W. W. Norton & Company, Inc..
 
Source: Barely Composed (W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., 2015)
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