In my day, we knew how to drown plausibly,
to renounce the body's seven claims to buoyancy. In my day,
our fragrances had agency, our exhausted clocks complained so beautifully
that cause began to shed its calories
like sparks. With great ostentation, I began to bald. With great ostentation,
I built a small door in my door for dogs. In my day,
we were reasonable men. Even you women and children
were reasonable men. And there was the promise of pleasure in
we postponed. Like a blouse, the most elegant crimes were left undone.
Now I am the only one who knows
the story of the baleful forms
our valences assumed in winter light. My people, are you not
horrified of how these verbs decline—
their great ostentation, their doors of different sizes?