I mean, who isn’t heating up for the next life
on the order of Antoine Doinel, or a pot of unsweetened chocolate.
Beginning with a single window and the sense
that what we know outgrows everything except a headache
or the desk dreaming on its own. It doesn’t matter
if being upright brings living beings closer to
the lives they lead (one’s 26-year-old self smokes a cigar
but isn’t a desperado) nor is beginning a poem with
someone’s wrath a means of stepping outside the Self
as though volume equalled flesh tones — any more than the Epic
of the Roast Chicken with Lyonnaise Potatoes and Greens
takes over the above-ground, colors and smells aside.

More Poems by Charles North