Nothing gives me pleasure. Even my dreams ordinary
in the task of being. Lately I’ve trouble with pace, which
has always been a mule in my ear, not intellectual at all.
It is easy to instruct students on how not to be. I say the words
on your screen come from a human, I say They have already thought
60,000 thoughts, and they have given some of those to you. I eat
yogurt and stare into the eyes of two young rabbits out my window.
I have grown so tired. I ask my students, Do you know anyone
who has been ghosted, because the task of being takes work.
I’ve come to understand boundaries through restriction, purge.
Because of my tolerance, the toxin sucked from my lesion tastes
sweet, a tang like semen suns the back of my throat. I get stoned
and work through the high. The young rabbits fuck out my window.
When will each of them die? In an Anne Carson poem, a man scoops
the unborn fetuses out of a dead rabbit, calls them dark apples.
When will difference come? I run until the breeze turns my work
to salt. The townspeople do not see exercise as a purge. I axe up
my brunches, ghost on clean sheets. How lucky, to be human after all.