la mort de l'auteur
story told, story turned into an apple,
the lowest hanging of golden fruits.
the very next day they demanded
that he be punished, burned him
at the stake with fire stolen
from his petty cigarette lighter.
story in the mud, in the doorway,
in the heart-shaped field. in the
most uncommon of senses, he clung
to the wood, the scent of his first gun.
story answered, story pinched
between two fingers and held to the lips.
the obituary came fast and clean,
costing only 42 words at half-price.
story in the clenched fist, in the coin
passed from here to there to yesterday.
on the moon, he shook out the newspaper
and tasted oil, perhaps salt.
they got it wrong, all wrong, all
up in arms about time-well-spent
while shirt colours went unspoken.
story baked into a pie, story held fast
like a wishbone and pull-pull-pulled.
he wanted to go back, damn it!—
incredible how words go from private dirt
to salt in the wound.
story in the wound, in the sea foam,
in the smoke-cured tongue. a handful
of decades and the newsboy’s already
out of a job, so really it's
story in the story-box, as with the
man in the moon-box, waxing and waning
his lid like blinking.
story forced down the throat, story
swallowed if you know what's good for you.
no it won't fix anything that needs fixing,
no it won't make you sick,
yes only one of those is true.
story in the beginning, in the ending,
in the circular staircase—oh
give the poor man back his lighter,
let him die by his own hands this time.