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I don’t want to argue with you.
Since the argument of the world began
It’s always been short by one man.
No job is quite complete.
Every love triumphant at first, ends in defeat.
Enthusiasm rooted in symbolism
is at the heart of civilized activity.
Dogs driven by hunger. Or poetry.
There is no in-between.
In the mist—the ghost of that one man was seen
and witnesses testify one by one
getting to the bottom of a conversation
dialect by dialect, which the arias push further on.
I don’t want to argue with you.
This poem is prepared to censor you, too.
But there we are, in the circle,
outside the stage door,
long after the show is over, talking.
