Never made it to return the empty bottles
Of Svijany banging round my linen bag
Stained with lettuce leaf rot, went home

Filled the bath over my shattered weight
Instead, it’s all too much, love
Let my behavior go quiet

Allow me to take on a conscious slouch
To attain closer to the burrow despite
Your ever straighter bearing, give me a day

To stop listening, saying, remembering
Every exile in which I cannot be
Like the physical therapist, half blind

Easily entering what he hears, unlike my
Brother who had never heard of Cioran
Till he read of him in The Wall Street Journal

Who never mentions Ukraine or the aphorisms
Yet sends me email after email about investments
Doctors, gold, fracking, and how she really is

Too young to have this kind of problem
A neck of cherry wood inlaid with pewter
Creaking across the day, isn’t it hilarious

That horror, hilarious how focused you are
On yourself, hilarious all that you remember
Pointlessly, absurd isn’t it, Stary

To acknowledge the Spring light can be
Best appreciated through a window and how
Badly that window needs to be washed

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