A poem is a joke with a dry punchline.
You looked into a divine future that wasn’t.
Let’s say she loved you, but now she doesn’t;
Love’s not funny, but maybe she never did.
A poem fails that cries. Better to kid.
Better to say the bricks that rainy night in the square
Were mirrors in the evening glare
And find a joke in that, that could be hiding there,
A memory of something a little weird or funny,
Her attempt at humor, your lack of money,
Whatever kind of makes sense, but is sort of odd;
Speculation or comparison to God
Is good for a laugh without laughing.
I want that, but that’s not what she’s having.
You fall in love with the crazy ones. Why is that?
There’s a mad excitement which lights the eye,
An interest which is close to enmity,
Which few can broadcast. I saw it in you
And ha ha ha—you must have seen it in me, too.
Now get ready for the punchline:
The gleam that gleams in the gleaming wine
Was the whole delicate thing in sum.
Get the poems from your desk. Patricia said you were fucking dumb.