It terrifies me how easily I can be untrue.
And yet—it excites me, too.
Think of a woman no one loves
who walks down the platform of the train.
Do you know she has a face which makes me insane?
Isn’t insanity the product of subjectivity?
Her face insults the ability of my poetry
to understand crazy and my poetry is pretty crazy.
Can I say something to her that I wouldn’t say to you?
I need to write this poem.
I don’t want to be untrue.