On friends: two poems and one not-poem

the dancing professor

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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