1913issue6online

55 Les Reveries du Promeneur Solitaire The sky is a horse. Or if you say the sky is a horse, you could say the sky is the teal underbelly of ocean. But to say that sky is teal underbelly of ocean, you could just as well be the bowler hat. Colors theorize the world seeing. A well-dressed man dreaming of death presents not merely a solitary walker but blurs lines between living and dead. Would you recognize your loneliness less fragile? There is, after all, a bridge. You could promenade by the river, which could be also a road. Walk alongside low-lit path as if this body was not levitat- ing behind. Your dead body, lacking dislocation (tongue and teeth) has lips. Your dead body—bald, alien head. Four visible ribs. Maybe you fall asleep, ceiling-less, standing. Look back, and you might count the ribs, might unbecomingly touch the mouth. That bond’s arbitrariness. Name the painting, and a dream shapes the dusk. Name the image, and night is bound. But you stare ahead at acacias. More like the darkness than this tone behind. Light body, eyes closed. Being just beyond. -Deborah Poe

1913issue6online

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