by Michael TeigSome men are so lazy they should be revered as saints. Not improved. Not working. No lift or tilt. Trying to put on one sock in the morning they are one man. A centipede of trouble. He pretends to be hit with a stick. He looks at the world as though it arrived in an airplane. The new world's new, quickening sun taps the stadium whose retractable roof pulls back till a single crow comes out, sideways, slurring over the skyline and wires. It lays out evidence and empty space: A woman beside you sleeping. A little clerk hurrying past like all the capitals of Europe. Drowsy projectionist, the sun does nothing but ticket the leaves. Some men are so beautiful that their insides are lined with the skin of lions, with the narrow skin of birds. With no help from me, the names of ships, with the teeth of mice, the overdue snow.
