The man in the tank.
Blazing away.
He is himself.
Nothing can use him twice.
What does he do about sex?
What does he do about snacks?
Do you have other questions?
He is a tough dreamer.
They gave me paper.
What is hard to draw is the block.
Heaviness of the block.
He moves it here, he moves it there.
Why move a block.
He is orderly as witchcraft.
He seems not to want to put the block anywhere.
How the heart dove and tore.
He is not like Sisyphos.
I groan.
Are there places in the mind you tiptoe past?
Your guilt is funny.
One day I thought the tank was empty,
then there he was,
pulling himself out of the middle of him.
Afternoons are long and blank.
He lets the block go.
It lazes to the bottom.
His goggles are impasssive.
You can refuse to clap.
Look at his limbs.
Slow, slow.
Our hope is from this world.
Ease it out.
Anne Carson was born in Canada and now lives partly in Iceland, doing art.