Simic was following me.
He’d been to the pub and sat in my booth,
wore my pants, played darts with a tarot card reader
he’d married in New Mexico.
He had no face--just an old shoe there.
His scarf was wrapped around his shoe-head
and his glasses flew into my hand like a bird.
“What if you ran into yourself
on the street,” he said.“And thought
that they deserved
just a little bit of suffering?”
He was in a blue tuxedo; a frog in his pocket muttered the alphabet.
He goes on to tell me
how he’d been busy spooning poached pears
into my mother’s mouth:
(“She’s circling dimensia,” he said. “She talks to cremated things.”)
and how my father’d left his
teeth in a Tennessee courtroom.
How did he find them? I thought.
He makes all of the dandelions molt…
“Hocus pocus,” he says and inserts six or seven maraschino cherries
into his mouth. “Fly to the beach. You bite so sensually.”
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