Yours in Haste
“Change” or some other empty, heartfelt
slogan is pounding at my door.
So are my doctors, driven above
and beyond the overwork and paperwork
of capitalist medicine
by rage at how little
I’m taking care of myself. And death pounds,
which is uncomfortable for it;
actually it shuns
spectacular demises, happier when
we come quietly, within the system. And the system itself
pounds, pursuing me for arrears,
wanting me to experience
the cold, romance and mystery
of a street, possessions blowing past me.
I’m ignoring them all to write you
this email, screen as dark
as the quantum sea, temperature lower
even than outside, blue flames rising from my fingers.
It would be easier
had we been lovers, even if I couldn’t
remember your name. But all my girls
are, hopefully, asleep
beside financiers, under lavendered duvets
or earth. Or had we been friends,
arcs of a brilliant circle that,
once closed, would have been infinite ...
existing was too vulgar for it.
So this tone of intimacy must stand
for intimacy. Actually,
that’s why I wanted to talk to you.
As winter fell, I thought
one last time about God, and was pleased
how dead the issue was. But realized
that faith was useful, and can be applied
to anything. (“Demonically,”
say theologians; well then,
I’ll be a demon burning in the gloom.)
We’ll be back. You’ll have a face,
a name; if you wish, a meaning.
May well have written this
yourself – offhandedly, an exercise
in imagining difficulties:
a stone that blocks your way,
a necessary test.
Without inordinate effort,
you roll it away from your tomb.
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