Indifference

the giraudon cover
garish with odalisque
and what seems like funeral
flowers, the foreword by
Jean-Paul Sartre
so we have a cheap copy
of Les Fleurs du Mal
with the Nadar mugshot on back
it rests near the keyboard
like a serpent coiled to spring
its navy blue tongue to sense
what is my indifference
to the awkward writing
that has gone under the radar
to be unpublished, gone to rot
like the garlic sprouting a green
shoot, then turning in chimeric
process, into the decadence
of another state, and folded
neatly inside the descriptive
phase, the countless personae
an interaction with You
and a message for the other you
we are like two books left on a table
read only our internal narratives
our lives and loves, between covers,
and never quite manage to overcome
the gap of reading outside of ourselves
perhaps it is because
indifference
sets
in