Pure Poetry
From an ever-greater distance
I begin to see
what seemed obvious
and thus, not worth mentioning
What formal paucity
caused me to weed
around words and phrases
I dreamt essential?
What orphic urges pushed me
into creating formulae
for all
that I most desired?
Training my soul
to consume
only the rarest of things
beyond the divided line
I barely divined
their materials:
fine mortal tears
raw, wounded matter
Angry, unsatisfied
I ask: what has this diet of
purity and abstention
done for me?
Are the sounds uttered
by a head severed
in sacred violence
thereby sweeter?
Are the stanzas clearer
for the absence of
blood, semen, phlegm—
betrayed as hints, as traces?
Now that the muse
is upon me, how do I take
the measure of business
so unmistakably human?
Vanya killed Dima over
the spoils of war: a Bosch
washing machine, a Gaggia
coffee maker
in the kitchen of women
they executed and left out
in the front yard
like spent equipment
Must we write a poem
about this, o Muse? How
do we even begin? Аnd
once begun, how to—
can you?—
go on, etc.