Keats and Blanchot lead me into an eternal disaster
of writing,
a return to the act of poetry
under a cloud of cigarette smoke
under the King’s words, that
the thrill is gone
that everything is over.
Return me to the state of writing
of enigmatic expression
of cryptic conversations with myself
that only the stranger can
comprehend
even just a glimpse of
what meaning he can make
to relate and enjoin himself to it.
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