Betrink dich und nenn sie Paris
Each day I wake feeling I’ve already failed.
Tonight let’s get wrecked and call it Venice.
A woman I loved lied that she was healed
and for a night until waking, we were. I was born
with a mortgage, now show me the house, the home,
slip me the dose that’ll make me care less. I wake
each day feeling I’ve already torn
what I meant to rethread. (Did anything seem
in Eden, or was it all its own is?)
There was that woman, so enlisted in life,
one of passion’s true recruits, Love, I said,
I am so bad at loving, and the usual biz
ensued — scenes, loss and its isotopic
slow-fade, never done. On the deathbed of the skeptic
where he slept each night of his dying life
he said, It was hard having so little skin-to-skin
with the world—but look on my works!
with the world—but look on my works! Venice
is sinking, and it might be the case
it was never the key at all. Said a small voice
in the cirrus of a dream, Love is its own abode.
Not sure what it meant, though I think I knew once.
There is some cold road that you must renounce.