THE END OF MY PUBLIC LIFE
I always thought beauty was important.

I always hated anecdotes. I only ever cared

for power, how I might

take it in my hand. I never want to write

about my mother. I love you, and one day

you’ll die. That’s the right approach.

Landscape of my affections,

It’s the thought

That counts, or the contour of it,

It’s your vagueness I admire.

I could drop a coin in your brain and it would bounce.

I’m sick of aphorisms too, but what else is there?

Short, high-pitched sounds,

Tram accidents of the heart. Pain is just an expression,

A way to survive this sharp spike

in sentiment. How many angels

dance on the pin

of your head? It’s unjust

how many guys are up there,

in heaven. I’m a

robber of dead men, a ‘delight’. It’s dreamy,

like a dream is a trick. What the mind conceals

the soul will out