I don't know
what makes you tick

You're like a foreign
animal

I need the cat
and the pencil

For you
I have a waining interest

You're like any
familiar animal

My pleasure is found
in the firm
but easy
grip
on the pencil
and the sound
of the tip
swirling
across
the open notebook

My desire resides
in the figures
of the letters
dancing
and the shapes
of the words
carrying
this meaning
about themselves

It's an orderly world:
Headache sits in the head

When you're out
skiing
I know I have something
to myself,
be it even headache;
be it nasty poetry;
be it live escape plans
a stack of suicide schemes,
or a flashback
of the sensations
of my fingertips
moving
along the reliefs
of Persepolis
late November 1972