A dollar bill will buy you a thin black line,
the very same line connecting
your nose to your chin. To own the rest,
the shape in which by now you’ve recognized
the silhouette of your own head,
please leave the money on my imaginary
coffee table, call me on the telephone.
It’s plugged into the pool.
Our relationship, see,
is not about commerce: It’s about time,
which is constantly running out.
And there are not enough old newspapers
piled out by the trash
from which to cut words expressing
that precise sentiment.
There are not enough bottles of glue,
and xerox machines to make
a grainy copy, and colors,
and scraps of sandpaper to rub
all that color away. What, you wonder,
does Marianne Moore’s hat have to do
with any of this? Have you ever seen
Elvis cry? I saw him once leaving
a cocktail party, except it was Tennessee
Williams and I recognized him only
from the yellowing pages of Time.
To understand what that last part
has to do with anything:
I will make you 26 portraits, care
of your name, addressed to your name
only, instead of some golf ball
in New Orleans, instead of all the countries
beginning with the letter . And if
by looking at the silhouette
I made of you
you think you know who I am
Sincerely,
note: the blank space after "letter" represents drawing of a rabbit turned sideways.