five by five hundred

Yesterday I talked very specifically of oblivion,
of how that desire trumped any of the niceties
or the fantasies. Here
is no portrait of a lady in her cups.

Here is oblivion, smeary-eyed and shrieking,
yielding only to torpor and remorse (perhaps)
when there’s nothing left.

I talked of my gratitude for the fact that,
thus far, this is all I can summon
when I think about it. If I thought
it might be nice,
it might be different.

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