You know, I'll read about five more poems here.
This one's entitled Envy.
Gee, the spokes glisten in the sun.
They do.
And the other two stand there talking about something.
And the third one continues throwing stones
at the car, which is too far away for the stones' reach,
but which is the target, nevertheless.
Something burns out in the conversation.
And they're standing there.
Because I say it does and because I
want their conversation to have something
to do with the other who is beyond them throwing stones.
His stones, by now, are just rattling on the street.
So they burn out as he ignores the others, the other two,
just as they're burning out, a little bit.
I don't know what they talk about, but I could guess.
Anyway.
It's none of my business.
And I am under certain pressures.
Because I want to demonstrate to myself and to them
that I can keep up with two disparate moments
burning out with one another, even in coincidence,
inside of each other and inside of each other again.