WHILE I SIT WITH KAFKA
He seems to know all those little
things I miss: What to call the
Magistrate behind her back, how
to zoom the lens that shows the
new prisoner's face. We sit on a
bench, somehow shackled together;
his arms around my legs, my arms
stuffed into a hole in the wall. A soft
machine whirs, and the gentle buffer
turns to, soon, a gritty abrasive sander
which begins ripping my flesh. We
laugh, and it only gets worse.
No comments:
Post a Comment