The Body
I have been
hanging here
headless
for so long
that the body has forgotten
why
or where or when it happened
and the toes
walk along in shoes
that do not
care
and although
the fingers
slice things and
hold things and
move things and
touch
things
such as
oranges
apples
onions
books
bodies
I am no longer
reasonably sure
what these things
are
they are mostly
like
lamplight and
fog
then often the hands will
go to the
lost head
and hold the head
like the hands of a
child
around a ball
a block
air and wood—no teeth
no thinking part
and when a window
blows open
to a
church
hill
woman
dog
or something singing
the fingers of the hand
are senseless to vibration
because they have no
ears
senseless to color because
they have no
eyes
senseless to smell
without a nose
the country goes by as
nonsense
the continents
the daylights and evenings
shine
on my dirty
fingernails
and in some mirror
my face
a block to vanish
scuffed part of a child’s
ball
while everywhere
moves
worms and aircraft
fires on the land
tall violets in sanctity
my hands let go let go
let go
Altre opere di Charles Bukowski...
