Correspondence

Drowsed in crimson and sun-bleached
flowers, in bright pink glitter, black and silver
swimsuit. Glistening cream buckles,
butter leather Mercedes back seat.
In the montage-collage of myriad
experiences: the tiny chapel in Prague
the opaque Warsaw skyline, and pool
at the roof of the Intercontinental,
I pasted you back
into the pretty discotheque-
like diorama I had been working on.
One hand on my Fiskars scissors,
another on the precious blue-paste,
or child-style, Uhu, what was left
from the boxes I brought back
from my brother’s enormous flat
in the former East, Berlin.
And the plastic-wrapped
EP records I’d kept
from that strange phase of when.
Athletic, I have always been
a strange, always hungry, animal.
Sleeping in the back seats of parked sedans
and, speaking by not, by pasting
one image next to the other,
a slide show, a montage of
bright photographs doing the work
that words used to with their visceral
preverbal substrata and powerful
their delicious turns.