2. Burying My Head In The Pillow

​My John Ashbery books mostly sit on the shelf, muttering softly to the neighboring books.  I think A Worldly Country could tell by the way I lifted it from between its neighbors that its author was dead.

I read through it, maybe for the first time since I bought it. Maybe for the first time ever.  I came up with a series of prompts based on the writing. And now, here is a poem that was slated to be a Maggie Nelson interaction. It may also end up being a Maggie Nelson poem , but for now it is definitely a John Ashbery interaction.

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2. Burying My Head In The Pillow

The capital of sleep has been walled off
by
whatever tyrant is currently
wearing the shiniest tiara.

The passengers on the train 
that no longer stops
there
don't even bother
to look up from their crossword puzzle
to reminisce about what isn't 
so much lost
as currently unavailable.

Twenty-one down
is a thirteen letter imaginary
word for the shade of  whatever color
you imagine represents the exhaustive
collapse of willpower to try and improve
society. No one has solved it yet.

Even the birds obey
the wall's strict existence.

The trees argue over whether
the sun will even bother to show up tomorrow
since all of mornings checks have bounced this month.
Don't forget your sweater.
Not that you're forgetting things. I'm just saying that
​today would be a terrible day to start.