XXI
He hates to think
of poesis negativa, he hates the Possum
more than he does the Pound, he longs for a thing
he only has a thought for, he regrets now
more than ever the language he used for that thought,
the stubbornness, and lack of knowledge, how he
struggled, how he just couldn’t focus, how
the words and the feelings took such a long time to come
and that is why in his eighties he does as he does
and it is blood now he thinks about for blood
is just underneath the skin and just prick it
with one of his needles and look at the meter and what
stands for meanness and what for stupidity
for which he closes his eyes to wait for the number, for
he has squeezed the skin already and watched the
drop of blood appear.
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