by Harvey Lillywhite
The great thing about objects
of desire is that they can’t
be sublimated (to make nobler
or purer, among other things).
You could sublimate your brains
out, create a whole New York City,
a Paris, or Hong Kong. But
it does no good. Desire, pure
and seething, remains. Consider
the scotch tape dispenser.
Like a sleigh for tape.
Those fifteen piranha teeth.
The jaunty green and black and
yellow tartan plaid label. The erotic
whole in the middle. And the invisible
MagicTape. Is it a mark of punctuation
gone wild? How it binds the tears
and helps to hold the world together.
Or the highlighter pen. The moist
tip infused with ink. How it
spreads its yellow stripe and
awakens whatever is beneath it.