A New Theory

Robbe-Grillet's first
novel, The Erasers, sits
on my bed next to
my pillow.
Because I claim
it is there and see it,
I am convinced it is there,
but I know it isn't there.
It is somewhere else.
It is perhaps floating outside
in the air.

Its wings are motionless
as it glides past the wall and
settles like a potato, on a
slight ledge; you see, I imagined
it was on my bed.

Next to my pillow, which
wasn't a pillow.

When I looked again
Robbe-Grillet's book had
moved to the top of the safe,
which stands naked in the corner.
I went outside looking for it and saw
it in a tree.

As I climbed the tree
to retrieve it the tree
began to die.

I hadn't thought
of that before, and I
said, "The new novel is dead."

And many others, old
and new,
following along for the
hell of it in the pages
of The Erasers, next
to the pillow on my bed.


TS