by Leanne Averbach
"We have art in order to not die of the truth" - Friedrich Nietzsche
Haunted by the butter you left at the bedside I must
run - take in a film. No use; I come back.
From the mantle I take and rotate a carving,
a soapstone man in the grip of a raven grinning;
round and round in one hand, it's small enough.
I try the tube. Reruns on the History Channel;
history repeating itself. I flip to a film, but it's the same
one I paid for earlier, or may as well
be. Some fetish thing, your
kind of thing. Back in bed I variegate
the covers, dream of big ships unfurling, leaving
returning with outlandish bounty, news of the new world.
But the butter - still there on the night table. It's oblong
slowness. This empty hand. The incessant night hollow.