Fumes of Pure Longing
I can’t look at these photos
And pretend I don’t have feelings
But I’m so detached from myself
That my feelings might as well mean nothing
They aren’t connected
To any reciprocal action
In their object
Or subject
And even though I’ve noticed
A certain enthusiasm
Enthusiasm could mean anything
Literally anything
No different from saying “nothing”,
Or even worse
An Ode to Love Itself
I am like a rodent, peering between leaves
While in the foreground cars parade
Down Broadway, and gasoline flows
In fragrant rivers, down the throat
Of this town and its vagrant children
From an out-of-the-way boulder I’ll compose
A sonnet explaining that love
Isn’t real, just a sensation following
Association or yearning, even though
In my breast pocket I carry a folded document
Inscribed with odes to love itself
