Art: Frances Ha
MORNING LIGHT ALTERS THE VOICE
As though the fog was speaking in hushed tones—
as though I were chewing on fingers
or reading newspaper after newspaper,
chewing on illegible words that seemed to say Today
thousands of rodents descended on Astoria,
three thousand seven hundred mice, wild eyed,
three toed; two thousand and four toothless rats…
But it is morning so I drink coffee, clench my jaw;
somewhere, a bridge drifts in and out of view.
Look at my hands: no newspapers, no smudged ink…
But it is morning—my teeth are in my palms.
ANY MINUTE NOW THE STORM COULD BREAK
Bleecker Street running its fingers through
your hair. Oil is pooling on your tongue
& did you notice the wads of money
raining down outside? They’re burning
before they even hit the ground!
The fact of the matter is Bleecker Street
is so red & wet this week…listen:
I’m waiting in the same café—I’m not
sick & my lips aren’t dry. But I can’t get
my fingers out of my hair—I’m grinding
soap into my tongue. Singed dollar bills
& crumbs are scattered on the floor…
I’m alone right now—alone, but waiting.
Look outside: is it still red? still raining?