Winter. Late January
afternoon. Night falls fast.
You think I should know this
by now. I am just
not feeling it the joy
I should be feeling—
the joy we are supposed
to feel we
who are alive!
Life! Life!
Well. My preferred pronouns
are we and we and I
sink into the self
at my risk. Our
s. O dialectic!
Lyric, society,
plurality, yo.
O the ’90s!
Here are the hemlocks
stern as Adorno,
thrusting into the fading blue.
A dust of snow
shook down on me.
We are within hearing
of traffic. Within
sight of a latrine
autocorrected just now
to Latina.
Is it my software
or me that’s racist?
The difference?
The difference
is spreading
said Stein not Einstein
though she thought
herself an equal