Member Poem

“This is a window”
on the wall, ballpoint scrawled.
A slab, ceiling facing,
unable to identify the
off-white, a sort
of unfocused infinite
no sunlight can alter.

I memorized this poem that
I found today. Would you
like to hear it? Okay.

[clears throat]
“'The Dismemberment Of'
Like Bacchus in the river,
the Greek name exchanged for syllabic
rightness. The drive feels Apollonian, though,
more so, to me, here. It's a directed want.
It's unpreserved, so maybe not: the latter
is the golder one, a – not a keepsake, but
a crown.

Did they plant the parts of him, the women,
for the harvest, or to preserve beneath a ground?
The world had just three seasons then. I knew it
from a book, I did, like the only way
I know only things. People, who knows.
Not I.
Not I.”

So there's that,
anonymity on my own terms,
a shade without a name.