Two Poems
Benjamin Niespodziany
Four Corners of the Earth
The priest sleeps
on his death bed
and dreams about
a priest who sleeps
on his death bed.
On the cliff, a clock
spins in reverse
as a man
with a magnifying glass
looks for a new species
of ant.
I saw you last
night, says the wife
to her whale,
in an all-white room
with a harpoon
rusting on the floor.
The store down the street
sells everything
but the store
down the street
is completely
on fire.
Birthday
It’s my birthday
every day this week.
I’m having
my party in your purse.
I’m searching the alley for trumpets.
I’m painting my nose red. I’m thinking
about the people
who don’t know their own age.
I’m wishing every number was
a question mark. I’m wishing I knew
how to swim
better than my sister. I’m proud of you.
Here’s this cigar box.
Here’s this old postcard
from some star party.
A ripped blister at a baseball game.
I’m fading like a cake. I’m more
like a candle. I’m proud
of your newfound wrinkles.
It’s early and you’re still young.
The elephant asks the woman
to leave her carriage.
I’m in wish fountain
with a used canoe.
A merry go round is just a carousel
spinning the other way. Interesting trades
are examples of other hands. Both love
without immediate order. I’m disguised
as the last janitor. Im helping you
to blow out your cake.
I’m looking
like a solid person
growing a tree between
time and time’s child
and the wild that always
gets in the way.
Benjamin Niespodziany runs the multimedia art site [neonpajamas] and works in a library in Chicago.