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.