No one is
Exquisite anymore. The river is so small now
It will be hard to drown
In It. And still this world’s a pretty one.
Here is the maudlin petty bourgeoisie of ruin.
— “Basic Poem in a Basic Tongue”
I cannot tell you this, not now, not ever, even
In the letter I have written that is so epic
That if you were to open it, the pages would sail out
In the wind like confection moths being born
— “Self-Portrait with Her Hair on Fire”
Let me list here the things I wish to bring with me,
For the life after this or that. I will not go back the way I came
— “The One Theme of Which Everything Else Is a Variation