2:56 p.m., January 23, 2008

January sun has left the noon behind –
again we venture toward the moon: how
strange to think that anyone could think
that anything was normal. Every moment
stabs and gores: we’re never not fresh
bleeding sacrifices to this unsolicited grand
enterprise – which, if (prodigious and

sadistic!) it has formal sides – it hides them
from your eyes. Haydn symphony again:
imposition of another of his symmetries:
we’d have stunk and wobbled badly back
in Papa Haydn’s heyday – music might
waylay us from a dark demise for
moments: but as we prised the jeweled

prize from its surprising grip, it would
already have begun to slip right out
of hand. I thought I wanted sex today:
some great, dark man – or rye crisp spread
with whipped cream cheese and thinly
sliced red onion – or to listen to a CD
of the Mahler Fourth since soon I’ll have

to play a part in it: but I could not quite put
my heart in it – I’m too be-dogged and
dimly frazzled by this strange experience
of loss – as if I’m missing something
central, tossed – right there – in front of
my blunt and essentially insentient mind.
January sun left more than noon behind.


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