There’s a catch in my throat
of resentment.
I look away
The subtler failings of the others,
their reflexive conformity
makes the fat man seem a Buddhist
in his alpine indifference to his difference,
and how the others avoid sitting near him.
What metastatic sorrow,
what pandemonium of desire
must be swallowed in the furrows
of his convoluted skin!
Why should I look at him?
What claim can he make on me
that I should look at him?
Immobile/yet
seeming to
shift
Or is that my own inward eye?
No one to devour
or be devoured by, heart
buried in furrowed convolutions,
free from desire with its taint of grief.
Free.
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