Proof Positive

Postmodern prose poems. Of course the unknown poet can produce no papers. He has no face, no name, he is simply like space, but warm and fragrant of fresh bean curd. Because I've read books and appreciate an interesting life, I knock and introduce myself at his door, from which his beard sticks out. Over in one corner of an English-style garden a crew is setting up for a fashion shot. Candy is soft compared to coins. Coins have presidents, buffalos, Indian heads, dates and other features that appeal to collectors. The eyes of the unknown poet follow the young with a sad smile. When the phone rings he doesn't answer. Laundry piles up. One day the circus comes to town and the trapeze artist misses and falls to his death. It's rumored he'd lost his good-luck charm that very same morning. The model poses, the photographer says, "Hold it just like that." He urges me to peek inside for a look, I do, and two turtle doves fly out.