We’re tempted, always, to perform in role
fine-structured movie of our artist’s life.
Lost job, dead love, surgeon’s infecting knife
Damascus hammers that beat out our soul
to thin perfection. Every diary date
potentially a telling anecdote.
Love letters simple acheing passion wrote
quarried for epigrams. We celebrate
Wednesday’s migraine, Tuesday’s cassoulet
as myths of struggle. We are always on,
writing each moment down and when it’s gone
rewrite it and improve it. Lovers say
they hope to get the transcendental fuck
we write of, but are always out of luck.