Looking back makes me sick and gives me vertigo;
Remembering is not what I like to do.
I see the dying and it doesn’t help at all that the dying is slow
Or that the blur of everything contributes to the fading of you.
So I’ve given up being sentimental and collecting photographs;
I’m clearing my mind of clutter and sorrow;
Now all I need is today: a few errands, a few laughs,
Yesterday is gone; I’m getting ready for tomorrow.
What finishes a line is its finish, its end;
As a poet I’ve trained myself to tie things up;
Only when the poem is really done will I hit ‘send.’
A poem is perfect when I perfectly fill the cup.
This means I don’t care about you anymore.
Pouring out the cup is very simple to do.
Be careful when you fall in love with a “sensitive” poet.
You will never forget him as fast as he forgets you.
