To pimp the fine young cadence
of the dying gasp’s demented urge
and to dumb back the ecstasies
that press up from, well, NOTHING—
this is our tiny calling,
our bungled ancientness.
ADVICE TO THE DISSERTATOR
Quit the brilliant dream plot and stand on knives
until all the god-costumes have been lost
and hang in museums.
Exercise, then, upon the museum grounds,
knowing more or less what hangs inside