This should have been the poem
where I sincerely renounced all poetry—
saying goodbye to Shelley in hell,
who I failed to write like—
numerous brazen gods hated him too well.
I was stuck in my admiration
of this paper-thin product calculated to be
anything I wanted. How could I kiss
extravagantly
when I was bursting with self-consciousness?
Why did I choose to be clever and lonely?
What the hell? How is it to be
Flogging the present with poetry?
Oh my God, I should have obeyed.
The past never comes to the present
like desire, which comes to it too fast.
Why did I choose to be selfish and afraid?
I should have studied prophecy,
not leaned on this. This alleviates nothing.
Nothing alleviates my poetry.
I should have been good. I knew how.
This should have been the poem.
This one. Which you are reading now.