I.
Rebecca Lindenberg, Letter to a Friend, Unsent
I haven’t written in a while
because I don’t want to talk
about anything
I’ve been unable to stop
thinking about: the knotted thread
of bad capillaries on my retinae,
money, or that my morning was ruined
by the unusual tightness
of jeans around my thighs,
like the obligations
of having a body
so ill-fitting, oppressively snug
around an obstinate will.
And while I don’t want
to be distracted
from this Duchamp thing
I’ve been working on— I am
itched out of reverie
over and over again
by this feeling I don’t deserve
my raptures…
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