“ I'm not a fool, I knew from the beginningwhat couldn't happen. What couldn't ”
Though the body is itsgenesis, a poem is the vision of a processCarved in space, vision your poor eye's singlearmor against winter spring summer fall
~ Frank Bidart
drugged to sleep by repetition of the diurnalround, the monotonous sorrow of the finite,within I am awakerepairing in dirt the frayed immaculate threadforced by being to watch the birth of suns
The stratagems by which briefly youameliorated, even seeminglyuntwisted what still twists within you —you loved their taste and lay thereon your sidenursing like a puppy.
After sex & metaphysics,—… what?What you have made.
