( after Louise Glück )
At no time, while the spirit
moves through you, are you dead.
You cannot be fooled,
You are not proud of this fact.
And all things being equal,
no matter the wasteland
or inclement weather,
is all there is, nothing you can do.
Still, I can’t bleed for new chicks
that have no history, this latest
generation that thinks
I can’t spell, or buy a chair.
Mine look at me as if I’m a typo
from a dead language
that lies in a silted harbor
where Trojan warships once stood.
They mimic a blasé-insatiable age
while I could no longer care less—
anticipating the lack of
what everyone else anticipates.