April 4th, 2020


Paintings on Ceilings

One way is

all things collapsing
upon you, the ground.
Feel about that.
Or air boiling.Every side is right side up.
Everyone has twisted towards you
with a scythe or crown of planets:
you’re going to be hurt by this.
You’ll need a false cornice, multiple skies,
a cloud for every lion, comets,
horses, registers of cloth
like shores for bodies.
With no horizon it can seem
like you are in a grave.
A room becoming ruined
can’t mean what I want,
no matter what I want, how
combing my hair
feels so romantic
despite everything else.
The ceiling is translated.
Prepare for it to say
you are dead,
not by seeing but thinking.
It haunts the room above.
And after a death, face it,
what works is forgetting