DIRGE: performance art for 13 dancers

no more a tradesman of suitcases, you’re tracking pages with bone powder in velvet emerald satchels over your shoulder (dislocated by moonlight).

august found you trading your tickets to a broken opera for a stamp of disproportionate magic.

(as if.)

broken things are dangerous: the crystal shot glass under your bare foot, the perfume-tray mirror thrown down cellar stairs.

spinning all those plates of glass and china (all at once), what were you thinking?

this is no prolegomenon for a misplaced cartography.

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2 Responses to DIRGE: performance art for 13 dancers

  1. Prato Deleto says:

    Your poems are unreal! They grow exponentially greater with time; or does time climb even evermore on them? Welcome back!

    • Krysia Jopek says:

      Thank you so much for reading and rereading my new poetry/poetics/shifts in which time is a character, the often-truant fourth dimension that can disappear of ensconce itself. We live in layers. Our emotional grid, spiritual scorecard–are grafted palimpsests. I’m in a lovely hospital room. My eyes have been closing, so aside from sending an email–this burnt toast shall hide under hospital blankets like a turtle for awhile. long live philosophy–that you for writing diligently philosophically for all the sheep who need a goat or a [T.S.] Eliot or two!

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