hagbardceline

All this endless, unconnected desire
All this clumsy bumping into each other
always out of the old habit of fear

Nothing inside but the absense of nothing
Nothing to want, but want still happens
On this long night without laughter or screams

If only no one hoped for a thing --
If touch, for instance, had infinite variation
A goodbye kiss might seem a gift
Or a stiff wind a nice surprise
Or suicide just the shoddy way out
And death itself merely sullen and constant.