I do not like the theatre;
I do not trust its lies.
Antigone’s a goddamn maniac
beset by flies.
What profit’s martyrdom?
What use is there in sainthood?
Your tongue will never taste of perjury.
(I wish it would.)
Neither the heathen gods
nor any of our saints
can stop a holy fool from circling
the sewer drain.
I wish we’d never met.
I hope you never write
to me again—and show up at my door,
alive, blithe, bright.