matryoshka

he says you can't have
too many walls. she spills
the red wind on the cream
carpet, he takes pictures of blood.

she twists and pulls, another
face appears this one has
a saxophone in his mouth. beer
in his hand. the moon is a sliced pancake
served up in a puddle of piss.




each layer peels the way of the previous
still, she's not impervious to nuance~
intellectually speaking, he seems to keep up.

where are your people from she asks.
poland, lithuania, south russia. she smiles.
steals another line from a philosopher.

listen, five years is a long time
but this moment
is the finest available. it's been aged
to perfection, curved , formed
to fit into the last one, carry the next.

he breaks glass with feathers, she paints
her shoes with a palette knife.
a string breaks in the next room.
they twist open another face.

as the dolls get smaller
they grow suicidally prouder.
another twist, another, another.
pretty soon all that's left is a point
that no one gets. you just
had to be there.