No one is so patient:
I myself don’t know where I end.
Here a phone trills forever—
waves prick and disassemble,
all quakes. It is not so bad.
Pain might be funny.
And I’m good at killing things
I like. I can come to the rotten aspect
of lunch and stop placidly, so.
Witnessing horror is a boring chore,
face it. Face it with me.
So the bird of my dreams is a crow
who turns into a robin,
who I can help out of any building
he wants to be trapped in.