You can tell me anything,
like about that incident that still shocks us,
the ear, the razor blade,
the slice, and then the blood.
There are theories I could share
while I find you medication. A pair of glasses
would make you squint less. You could learn to see
the sun as it really is, a nearly perfect sphere;
you could scrape off all those excess dabs of paint
using the flat side of a dull knife. We could smooth
out your ups and downs. Or would it be easier
for me to travel to your time? I’d like to walk
with you down lanes in southern France,
nod to Madame so-and-so who hangs sheets
to dry beneath flowering peach trees.
Will her round face be creamy and unspoiled,
even though she has no washing machine,
is pregnant with her fifth child?
Is she captive in her landscape,
making the best of things?