"Gather your marginals, Mr. Specific. The end
is nigh. Your vanguard of vanishing points has vanished
in the critical night. We have encountered a theory
of plumage with plumage. We have decentered our ties. You must quit
these Spenglerian Suites, this roomy room, this gloomy Why.
Never again will your elephants shit in the embassy.
Never again will you cruise through Topeka in your sporty two-door coffin.
In memoriam, we will leave the laws you've broken broken."
On vision and modernity in the twentieth century, my mother wrote
"Help me." On the history of structuralism my father wrote
"Settle down," On the American Midwest from 1979 to the present, I wrote
"Gather your marginals, Mr. Specific, The end is nigh."
l wish all difficult poems were profound.
Honk if you wish all difficult poems were profound.