My Desk

An old man from Pakistan
Has been staring at me these eight years
Never blinking
Since I put his eyes down in ink
That smelled like a carpet store
And a Crayola red rose
Curls out of a Mason jar
Like a trap-door spider from its hole
Surprising in the veined velvet softness of its petals,
The clock ticks
And I do not hear it
Like I do not hear my breathing
It is one eternal second off
And at my fingers’ touch
I have
A brick made by the hands of a free man
And a crystal perfume bottle from Paris
That keeps winking purple
And a piece of silk sewn
By a girl with almond eyes
Sold to strange merchants in her childhood
And Edmond Dantes, Suffering
And Holly Golightly, Traveling