for R. Brautigan
having
applied aftershave lotion
you take a deep breath.
filling up
the dark blue pulmonic sacks
with as many shiny bubbles as possible
(that’s how you expel the vocative case
out of your ear cavities
as well as the ghost of lonesomeness
out of the steamed-up curtain
in the self-service restaurant.)
then you get out into the street
and wait for the highly trained mystery
to finally spring up.
like a snake-catcher’s bag
from the rocky ground around Imotski.
Gombrowicz hated poets with a reason.
and we know why.