The weakness of the highest art
slaughters yours and my heart—
musically savaged; we are wailng away
on the stretched, popular songs today,
the president in them dutifully accused
in the insinuating chants Chaucer used.
The old alliances are wrecked
by new ones; if they pay me, I’ll comply,
freeze you out, laugh; not cry.
None of us want to love. We
would rather sleep well and be close to God.
Your dog loves you.