self-exposure
by Henry Wicks
the world is reticent, you think,
duller than it once was, inspiration
less forthcoming, or at least
it was a different emulsion then,
that lent the grass its bittersweet
magenta cast.
nowadays only rain will do
for restoring the asphalt’s black
& darkening “just-so” the cedar
siding on abandoned houses —
that pure and agitated feeling
you once called inspiration
nowadays only surfaces
on mountaintops, early
in the morning or in the wake
of someone beautiful. so
you shutter the windows
and begin your work: you drink
colloidal silver, not to die,
but to prepare yourself.
you continue this drinking
until the silver is in your skin, your
hair and nails, invisibly in the dark
of your dark room, dark for weeks.
tomorrow,
you will awl a single pin-hole into
the walnut shutter opposite the
back wall which you have cleared
and stand naked against it, still as can be,
as the light touches you darker
and bluish.
that tree like a bolt of lightning,
across your chest: the smear of a
child walking to school.