Notes on Arrogance
Reshuffling itself over and over again, I, the I,
Better than Elvis coming
Out of the mouth of Jesus,
Knowing the fame that comes only from death.
You explain.
Something muddy in the street rises
In a fiery madness beyond pretense, says:
I transcend.
Noticing itself, falls back from air to mud.
The trees have imagined me.
The trees allow me.
I chop them down.
I kiss Martyr, mother of God, on the lips.
Later, with no reflection in the mirror, ask,
Where has she gone?
I am nothing.
She has form: grit under the fingernails.
I have imagined her.
The trees have imagined their own death.
A tree has been enchanted. It dwells
In the woods near no village.
The treetop covered with emeralds and amethyst.
Roots tangled, black mouths.
Something hides in the mirror, muddy in her mind.
Adorned with ornaments, I am Mary, I kiss the mirror.
It rises to the rustle of wings.
Nothing between the stars and the treetops
But enchantment.
Nothing between us but space.
I am better than you.
Originally appeared in PloughShares
