To the perfect
Who perfected everything down
To the very littlest detail of the cockroaches’ shaved hair
The jungle crossroads of all the millionths of cotton,
The wink of the flea who bit me on the arm.
Chinese letter I cannot read,
These cluttered bookshelves with my books,
My hungry pockets wires and the blue L shape
Of my inhaler.
The smell of food: is that potato?
The smell in the shape of steam wavers
Into the room,
What is perfect in clarity?
The divorce of rooms and bare toes
And unshowered bodies; and the music deconstructs the sounds
Of air and central heating.
A great roaring cough scratches my throat,
The limping cat in the garden,
In the hair of grass, wishes like chinese letters,
And disinfected love smells bleachy,
Almost hindu-dotted forever,
Ca a l'air de rimer.