generally speaking, we are all wearing the same winter coat, asking

of the public to appreciate the works of John Ashbery, to sob openly.

Saint Agatha, we sit and sweetly deny that sex exists

precious breast, molded to need; faith arrives

in grief, or poetry.

what is it to you, if my hair is long or short? even as

i hold a memory, a piece of hybrid poetry

is destroying subtlety, and beauty. what is it to you,

that hybrid poetry will be the end of humility?

next thing you know i will be fleeing

into the arms of Robert Frost!

speak in archaic German, and please,

hold me as if i were a hand put out to live.

palm turning black in mistake, unpurged,

flagellant fury that swells accordingly. her name

is cashmere and dusted green, so

slight of heart as to say, "i don't hate you,

broken gift."