What does the new savagery
require of me? If I pound a nail
into the wall, the wall is my heart.
All that gnawing on my own headbone—
that was the old savagery, a lassitudinous
charade, black leather jacket boom boom
long after the sun had set and all
that was left was for the dancers
to put their clothes back on.
The mind twists its silver wire.
A tiny mechanical bird is made to sing.
I will write another long last letter
about what I had for lunch, what had me
and you will understand my feelings,
how they only want to feel yours
and if the duty of my dejections
takes me into the sky, no one
must follow me. Not mother
made of balsa wood, not father,
the plinth. Even you, my love,
must not get covered with that ash.
Why am I so afraid of nothingness?
My soul is a baby wolf.