by Christopher Schaeffer

With a slow coast of blood along the lip and a torn jacket,
Kierkegaard worse for it, you catch him by the shoulder
And headbutt his frail ribcage, and stomp at his feet.

Nee, nee, he says but nobody is listening, people
Have gathered with beers in their hands and dying
Cigarettes in a cautious half-circle, whispering
And howling. He scrambles on all fours and tries

To escape up a tree but you grab his leg, rip
A long clean hole in his stockings, one buckled
Shoe is buried in bruised sod. The police amble
By, flash their brights, move on. Kierkegaard

Lands on his back, makes a small wet sound,
Is weeping, his black silk hat is a ruined shape
Huddled in the road. In some countries, despair

Is a thing you beat at with your fists, tear at
With your teeth. In some countries, you put despair
Beneath your pillow and smother it to death over many months.
In some countries despair collects a tax and fucks your wife
On your wedding night. In some countries despair
Is a store at the mall that sells collectible knives.

Kierkegaard is scattering teeth and pseudonyms, limping
Badly. Lights are shutting off like winces along Main Street.
A girl calls, asshole, or monster or knight
Of infinite resignation. In some countries despair is the hard
Seed at the center of the fruit that you spit into a crushed
Paper cup. In some countries despair is

$100 on the invisible life of the spirit and a cigarette
in the front pocket of your father’s last clean shirt.
Violence is a foot note in a short but tedious tract.

At the well-fare window Kierkegaard will slyly intimate
That your despair is in despair of becoming other than yourself.
The week after that he will borrow your car
And paste posters on the sides of barns,
The visible barns, sure, of course, but mostly
The invisible ones.