Don’t Look///Look

    David Kholamian

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Don’t look when it rains from an urn

someone buried in the sky. Don’t dig through

the atmosphere. Bury yourself where it’s most solid.

 

Don’t look for the crowds on the tourist street

in any major city. They will look for you.

Trace the cracks in the sidewalk, let them lead.

They will take you away from any major city.

 

Don’t look into the far side of the canyon.

There is growth and there are tumors. The brush

may be both. Spatter yourself in resin, carry on.

 

Don’t look when I speak with a mouthful of rain,

when I’m the same as the crowd, when I’m walking

through a canyon and the brush is up to my neck.

 

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Look at the posters in the room, there are seven.

They are all pictures of rooms. A room with

pictures of rooms. This is the dream. Elsewhere.

 

Look at the flies by the river, by the fast food wrapper

smeared in cheese globs and grease. Name them, the flies.

Pet them, fail to, viscera on your greasy fingers.

Insects are a sense of madness, like humor at scale.

 

Look at the guitarist in the subway. He’s terrible.

You’re not listening, you’re looking. He’s okay.

Put your headphones on, play something yellow.

 

Look at the redundancies. Put your irises in the gutter,

pluck the strings with your eyelashes, forget your lips,

forget your ears, your teeth, your neck your legs your
fingers your feet just look.