Christopher Bock

ein Gedicht Geschrieben am Abend

Late the evening I forgot how to swim,
your face blurred and then appeared in the spray.

I tried to put you away into drawers
and cupboards, but found over and again
that you had fragmented, multiplied,
become paper dolls.

The Other chased the Self up the stairwell
and tied him to the bed, alone with Consequence.
The Other brought in a mirror so the Self
could trace out his scars, freckles, tattoos.

I dreamt that the spray became paint,
my arms canvas.
I awoke to find a fresh scar on my wrist.

All surface gesture,
flat, dynamic, muscular webs--

Evening again.
Your faces in black spray.
The waves are all holding hands and I
can't work out the mechanics of swimming.