An homage to John Ashbery

When I mark the two edges
of a contempt
with a sharp pencil
naivete interrupts.
It bestrides on the two edges
and pushes them away.
‘I just walk around
Into the dusk-charged air.’
Vividly smell my own perspiration –
the monster inside me
replicates itself in an endless variation.
Is contempt a chess-board?
A driveway?
Amorphism?
“…I cannot explain the action of leveling
why it should all boil down to one
uniform substance, a magma of interiors.”