Readings on Lacan (But really having nothing to do with)

By what one does not know,
The lingering scent of an arm, a charmed thought

In his dreams, his mother lies dying
In a breathing bed.
Her pores are big, he thinks.

As if to absorb him back
Into her body.

He remembers her birth
For her, in the
White of the hospital room,
When he stares into the mirror. He wonders
About the chalk of his
Lover’s thighs.

What a night in Chicago, the noisy trains
Rampaging across
River. What a night to be seeing

A person,
For the first time. Struggling
In the water, struggling in time,
Space. Buildings that have risen to the face

Slaps
One awake.

©hRj 2007