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The Hotel Eden

by Spencer Short

The parrot in its bright paper feathers or the window
opening out on an ideogrammatic landscape or whether what hangs overhead
might be "the past," weather, a plastic yellow ball —

we wander a hall full of doors carrying a memory like a key,
we wander a hall full of mirrors thinking our body is a key,

thinking our body is a box made out of wood,
the mind an attic, thinking duality &c. as the day
spreads away from us like a woolen stain across the agricultural blueprint
                  of the Midwest,
over the salt-light of small towns, over the off-white City Hall
whose posture is a symbol for rational substance, planning &
law but whose lack of parking suggests . . . . Meanwhile,
the parrot, the ball rolling forever overhead, the small vial hiding,
pharmacotherapeutic, in the closet;
our childhood of scraped knees & irrevocable loss adrift
on Utopia Parkway — we try to go back but it only seems the wheels go backward,
it's a trick of film, one illusion among many;

meanwhile the bird goes nowhere, is nothing but
a paper dream of the exotic in a dream made of wood
while outside the window

language grows fertile & there's rain & there's rain

February 15, 2008 in Poems | Permalink