The rat who came last night scratching
By the door—did you appreciate
He might be wanting to converse?
In your sleep there was an outburst
Which left small wet stars
Like a problem situated on the triangle
Of unusual cloth. In the night it is popcorn,
In the day blood, there is no end
To your desires in the unreasonable booth.
As when the cancer enters the crib
To kiss, it raises the pitch of a corroded
Family debate over whether the eyes of
The friends who are sticking their hands
Into, not around, your flesh on the planet.
I don’t know, it might be a good thing to eat the infant
Rather than sting him, which raises the lance into the tears.
—Tom Clark, “Splashes”
Illustration Credit René Magritte, “Storm”
