Untitled: RK VI
The day I stopped sounding like myself
and became a rough draft of somebody else.
It was like having a mild stroke you only
know about weeks later when your left eye
looks weird in the mirror and you can’t read
Portuguese any more. O but the nights
when the women who like this new man
come up from the subways to know me,
I translate Rilke for them a while then they
enlace me tight in fleshy arguments, their
birthparts console me for having been born.
Robert Kelly
Posted over on Charlotte Mandell
from MAY DAY: Poems 2003-2005
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