Flying Lesson

Start hiding things in poetry. No one ever thinks to look there.
My room is van Gogh’s, the same brown boots. Nothing fits.
Start disguising mud in beautiful sunflower-coloured carpets.
Flies stick to scraps of papers from the ceiling like spoiled ballots.
Most of us cling to a death.
We are constantly making love in the dark.
Flies hurdle their bodies against the windows.
Before going to New York, a woman gave me a ceramic frog.
Start pushing poetry down the throats of ceramic frogs.
Frogs only have one thing on their mind, hence the warts.
My mind is racing. My soul, with its worn-down boots, is losing ground.
I wish I could repeat it for you. The frogs do.
Love is the slowest speed of light in the universe.
According to the Theory of relativity I am merely a slow Internet connection,
barely existing.
In the mirror I am exactly who I am: someone else looking at myself.
Love is E=MC(2). I don’t know what it means anymore.
The leaves don’t know they sing all day, and we don’t know the words.
My heart is a stuttering frog. Or maybe that last fly buzzing
behind the eyelids for an exit.

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