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All the Boredoms in the World

I forget if young girls still sleep

with their boredom beneath their pillows

until a boy says, I love you.

My mother planted her boredom

in a garden but never said what grew.

There’s a pattern developing here.

No one is allowed

in the basement of sleep

but an old nun sits at the door

and sells postcards with a colorful,

but badly lit, photograph of it.

There are times when boredom is a hand

over a flame until the smell of burning flesh.

For miles that night, silverfish, dead, floating

at the surface, a piece of the moon on each.

I drove past people looking up at the roof of a bank,

arms motionless at their sides,

a staggering scene of languor.

It’s always a warm afternoon

when things like this happen,

a man on a roof preparing to jump.

from I’m No Longer Troubled by the Extravagance Find it in the library

Copyright © BOA Editions, Ltd 2015
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of BOA Editions LTD.

Published in Poems Rick Bursky

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