Season
All right we won’t go out.
The new films aren’t great.
And if they are, the reviews
that say they are are somehow
dispiriting. – Not worth the traffic,
the parking, the crowds
both of the living
and those who mewl at the edge of being,
wanting to get at us, to get us.
We don’t have to go out.
There’s stuff in the freezer.
We’ll read, make a fire,
put on music. It shouldn’t
have to be said that I love you. Saying
“you” halfway through a poem,
as mainstream poets do, is like mentioning
poetry in a poem – a way of hiding
from an ungreat culture,
feeling superior, which it hates
as much as being superior …
I hate this time of year.
Their music is the same
five imbecile tunes. They scourge
their god on film until
you’d think they’d admit
it is the whip they yearn for,
and a chance to hunt and kill.
Sunset in an hour.
We’ll stand by the window, hug
and watch it. I may quote
La Rochefoucauld, who said
that people fall in love
only because they hear people talk about it;
then immediately think
that doesn’t apply to loneliness, which
predated speech and will outlast it.
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