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This poem is taken from PN Review 180, Volume 34 Number 4, March - April 2008.

Six Poems Harry Mathews

Tinguely Museum 8/27/06

'This door is no internal door, please keep clear
And follow the green seven-link snake
By the seat of your pants
To the other end of town, the temple of cellar slides
Into fluid darkness, where your lost friend
And his paramour evolve
In retroactive determination to escape
Your deserving arms, and to accomplish wonders
That define their death, a fluid death
That you cannot retrieve, nor will you
When this pen runs dry
And you with it.'

The White Wind

No doubt you are like me, wanting what we look for,
Perhaps you are not like me, unable to go on,

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