these times of year are desperate, are
lonely they are spider traps i can’t
talk myself out of, when it is midnight
and the depression is so repressed
that pulling it out
is de-evolution, fundamentally re-volting
to this grand new person i (almost)
am. where are the stars at 2 p.m.? i suppose
chopin could tell you, his piano live-wire
in my head, his notes smoggy and impressionistic,
too dense to hear
screaming, taxi horns, gun-shots,
men returning, men leaving, or the downfall
of western civilization.
i am not alone, not
terribly enlightened. i just can’t hear you: i’ve cut
off my ears, recycled them, made them
poetry, made them immortal.
the last pavilion 