By John Compton
i imagine john ashbery reading my book instead of dying
john ashbery laid my book
on his desk, his face
aligned with the cover.
his fingers stitched neatly,
binding his hands.
his eyes extending their reach.
he sat, soundlessly,
listening to david, in the other room,
gather produce for a vegetable soup.
the pantry door creaked gently,
dropping a poem into the air.
he breathed, a subtle groan—
the sound of preparing.
john lingered at the title page,
letting the poems simmer:
a breath caught in his cheek.
he slid his finger across trainride,
met the corner of the page,
& turned to “felicity.”
he understood the mathematical equation
referencing a blowjob.
his smile creased like a dog-ear.
●●●●●
inanimate stranger
i scout a pocket
to inhabit. the room
renders listless.
my mind distends with displeasure.
every second trickles. water
slurs through the glass.
air is soaking
with the smell. in the road
the dog is as heavy
as my pen.
he is a chattel
of my imagination. a meager
creature to the yellow
lines. the chatter behind me
becomes anonymous.
a girl shrieks. her flushed
face speaks
for her humane mouth.
//
a man
kisses a lady
in a photograph.
their white frowzy hair
speaks depths
about their happiness.
●●●●●
since the world is war
writing poetry
reincarnated
his country.
he records new cities
while watching
buildings
become rubble.
he sounds out
gunfire,
turns the music
of warheads
down.
he witnesses
children die—
he watches mothers
weep, ripped apart, then
die.
he scrutinizes men
with power,
wanting to be gods,
becoming gods.
//
he tries to ignore
the corpus mountain
that accumulates
outside his window
because in his nightmares
ominous stares
haunt him—
dead eyes
never close—
there, the deceased rise.