In my day, we knew how to drown plausibly, 
to renounce the body’s seven claims to buoyancy. In my day, 
our fragrances had agency, our exhausted clocks complained 
    so beautifully 
that cause began to shed its calories  

like sparks. With great ostentation, I began to bald. With 
    great ostentation, 
I built a small door in my door for dogs. In my day, 
we were reasonable men. Even you women and children 
were reasonable men. And there was the promise of pleasure 
    in every question 
we postponed. Like a blouse, the most elegant crimes were 
    left undone.  

Now I am the only one who knows 
the story of the baleful forms 
our valences assumed in winter light. My people, are you not  

horrified of how these verbs decline— 
their great ostentation, their doors of different sizes?