I can’t hold it any longer,
won’t cling to the thought
that things themselves are not
what science can explain,
only their relationships.
Invariant design,
for example, of the American
Standard exposed me to unwanted
outward elements. To have to be
alone and desire it to be thus.
Nor is the Crane true-formed,
sculpted to the animism of that bird
even though its cold, smooth geometric
touch might soothe the unprotected.
But an Armitage, the exact contour
and depth of my face, by this strange
affinity eases the ambiguity I suffer.
Divine or comic. About Duchamps, say.
A paradise! Paradise awaits
as though in hectic fervour for me.
He called it ready-made. He named
it Fountain, something else entirely.