"Tell me what hasn't been told before.
Tell me about the crook of your elbow
Or the bottom of your left shoe."
But the crook of my elbow smells of nothing,
Not even soap. And the bottom of my shoe
Is black rubber, flat, with an unstained sole.
I’d rather talk of other things unknown,
Of the two-headed bear that lives
In the veining of the bathroom floor,
Or the sigils calligraphed
In asphalt patches through the parking lot,
Obviously meant for aerial communication
With the Canada geese. Maybe:
“Stop here and don’t go south.”
The code’s unclear. But when I get too close
They hiss at me and beat their wings.
The crooks of their wings are feathered.
The soles of their feet are flat.
Their eyes are made of cheap gilt glass
And their bodies are stuffed with sawdust.
Their turds were once fashionable,
“Goose-turd green," but that was back
In earlier times, in days long past
When everything hadn't yet been said,
When everything hadn’t yet been written.
Now the only thing left to talk about
Is the crook of one's own elbow
Or the bottom of a shoe.