The Knock Off Arrangement
I paint a wall in my bedroom blue.
The mirror in the middle stores reflections
and plays them back: You walk in
and out. Undress. Arrange yourself next
to me. I bought a fish in a glass bubble
to authenticate the experience.
Ocean of possibility, I say to no one.
You've gone still now, drifting on the surface.
I spend hours in front of the mirror,
hands under you, keeping you afloat.
The fish jumps out of its bowl, shrinks like
a popped balloon. Hidden behind our building,
the moon performs its usual routine,
disappointing no one.
It's so dark all the instruments slide off key.
The piano insists on playing Chopin,
though it's far too sharp. Such cruelty. I rattle,
aimless, room to room. The piano
does not impress. The piano doesn't care.
It holds its pedal down, tolls like a bell.
All the pretty horses
have had their legs broken:
they want to get closer
to the ground.