She shrank to a fragment
of what I had said.
My sweet turtledove:
I struck her meat
from out her shell,
I spoke in her head.
In retaliation
she gave me hell.
I am a corpse for years
crying tears that run
into a cobblestone well
from which Jack and Jill,
toothless and grim, draw
as they hum Dixieland jazz
to themselves. A voice
inspected me to death.
It found the hole in my head
we've looked through since '09.
She threaded a clothesline
through it and wheeled me
out to the middle of the alley
where I dry under a farther sun.
I twist in the wind.
I dream I speak to her
through the empty can
at my end of the string.
When the real telephone
really rings, the voice
who answers will sing
God's word in a golem's mouth.
Hear the crowd shout!
It's the amazing Mr. Inside-Out!
See how he doubts
this reality where everyone
is smarter than he.
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