If you have studied statistics, you know
that there is a fifty-fifty chance
of landing heads or tails,
except I never toss a Tyrian shekel,
like a square of dark chocolate,
offered for every confession of love
we made when tired of playing
a perpetual opening night
watched by no one
but a souffleur in front of a telly
after another shot at Der Tod des Vergil
to assure you that the latest fixation
with venereabilia is nothing more than an expression
of intellectual eccentricity—
my legacy
that includes a three-bank typewriter,
a few sheets of genkō yōshi,
and a plumbago stick.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
