Tonight, I can’t tell what the poems say.
I almost gave in. Traded my life for the garbage and bargain of bright lights, and ritual slaughter.
Now, I’ve gone too far. And all the more I was unconvinced.
That’s a quick punch your nerves can’t accept.
Sad contumacy, no song.
I make my exit among the back-handed essayists.
We exclaim politely.
We smile like Siamese who realize there are no twins.
The sooner you get over yourself, the sooner you begin.
You know what it means to read, you have no idea what it costs to live this.