GRAHAM FOUST
Self-Portrait in Supertarget
Scrutinized by forty new blue
fluorescent lights, you’ve not
been watching you. But like
a hand that’s working clay to make
a bottle that may one day keep
your teeth, you bet you yank
and pluck and push and sing.
Abrupt, dumb—your whole
lifetime, finally—your songs
decide, as though crushed,
to say nothing. To tongue
imagined money through the room.