waiting for death
like a cat
that will jump on the
bed
I am so very sorry for

Bach, I said, he had 20 children.
he played the horses during the da
he f—ed at night
and drank in the mornings.
he wrote music in between.

I even hear the mountains
the way they laugh
up and down their blue sides
and down in the water
the fish cry

once
we were young
at this
machine. . .
drinking

one of Lorca’s best lines
is,
“agony, always
agony ...”
think of this when you

he said, “I was working in Hollyw
working in Hollywood and he was
the worst: he was too drunk to sta
end of the afternoon and so I had
into a taxi

we had goldfish and they circled a
in the bowl on the table near the
covering the picture window and
my mother, always smiling, wanting
to be happy, told me, ‘be happy He

not much chance,
completely cut loose from
purpose,
he was a young man
riding a bus

“you know,” she said, “you were at
the bar so you didn’t see
but I danced with this guy.
we danced and we danced
close.

the history of melancholia
includes all of us.
me, I writhe in dirty sheets
while staring at blue walls
and nothing.