While rummaging through the cupboards
full of semitransparent containers and ancestral dust,
Mr Honk, though immaterial, was reflecting
on the layer of flesh over his bones
and whether it wasn’t an inch too thick,
like the hollow walls without insulation
that separated him from the clamour
of his alleged sins, interspersed with inductions
on emotional economy, and all the books read
and reread over and over again, through generations,
to battle the excruciating boredom of the days
of conscience, only to be more agreeable
about the difference between a roman à clef
and a secret journal.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
hidden pilcrow 