Oh please read this. I know
You’re curious. And, I also know,
To you, I am underground,
And this poem is pathetic, a sound
To comfort myself—where you are not found.
Just to know that you see
This, gladdens my poetry,
Which is better, in every way, than me,
Who, in real life, failed you.
I hate real life.
In life, I cannot talk to you.
How real is that?
Except through this. So this is what I do.
Life knows how failure attends
Every love. Unless, somehow, it make amends
Far, far, from desire, which ruins.
Do you see all those ruins?
Swift desire’s been there
Making, with its bounty, everything bare.
I seared you, I scorned you,
I burned you; nothing I saw with my desire
Had anything to do with you.
I burned. But everybody loves a fire.
Except paper, sleepy home, safe work.
Burning, burning love. The biggest, biggest jerk.
Here. I write this quiet poem, hoping,
You’ll see it, among the ruins, coping.
The fire’s out. But read this, anyhow.
Look. And give me quiet comfort now.