here's some interesting poems by John Ashbery.
Finger tip to mosquito bite, rub
the itch away, now there, rub,
now there, now there, a flash
of something else not right, not
bound by strange secrets that hide
behind chairs, sit very very still,
mouse-like, sibilance skitters
up the door jam while shadows mark
the wall between photographs of us
as we once were. Would you lie
to make the story more believable?
Of course you would, you always have.