As I dug in my bag for my vitamins,
I came upon the honey and the vinegar first.
A small, friendly, cloudy, light went on. Work, which we all do,
which the animals do, all that science, philosophy
and religion considers—work, the worst,
and the best of what we worry about—
everything can be reduced to it:
not that, not that, that.
That’s all we ever do: art,
sports, love, chores, videos—
not that, not that, that.
Is there anything else?
Everything else is oblivion.
I was “not that” to you; someone you kissed
and then decided, after a while, wasn’t “that.”
But “not that” is something.
“Not that” is quite a lot,
especially to sex addicts and anarchists,
who never understand, until they’re old and fat,
that oblivion is
that, that, that, that, that, that, that, that, that.