Anniversary VII

Through the window
Another window
Has dimmed from light
To dark.

One less
Pair of squares
To coat the view
From my seat
In the library.

They’re everywhere,
Squares, patched into carpet,
Ceiling and glass of the astounding
Number that litter
The buildings
Through the window.

Square.
Like the current date
If you remove February:
25, 25: 625. Or rather, 2557 days
According to my calculator—
Is this entertaining
To think in numbers?

I think I want to have sex
With the squares
In the library, I can hardly
Concentrate. As I read
Surrealism, a nymph
Rises from the book,
Tells me, yes
I do want to have sex
With the squares—
Much love,
Freud x

After all, it is
The beautiful season
And I am
A composite creature.

And I am
Still not sure
If the seventh anniversary
Was the right time to write
Some naff shpeel
Fronted with the label
Of my mother’s death.

Yeah, I’m afraid I’m not
Going to be
Analogising this time.
No moon driven from sky
No lost mirage on the water,
Though maybe I almost had you
In the opening.

She’ll have to settle
For ramblings
About squares, numbers
And sex.

This is who she coddled,
Ernst’s freakture.

Where did this villainy begin?
Under the covers,
Where she’d hidden
A fake poo.