"Maybe it's OK after all if you
Never write the great novel or make love
To the tan, oiled movie star in Rio.
Stretched out under an ordinary mauve
Sky, you count the stars that couldn't care less
About you. Blinded by their own cold light,
They've wheeled these forty years above your loss
And are little consolation tonight.
Even grand failures were beyond your reach:
Those heartbreak letters written and burned,
That Jewish girl who rode your hand so deep
Into orgasm she could not return.
What night requires, the singing dawn gives back,
Trustworthy as your inevitable heart attack."
Never write the great novel or make love
To the tan, oiled movie star in Rio.
Stretched out under an ordinary mauve
Sky, you count the stars that couldn't care less
About you. Blinded by their own cold light,
They've wheeled these forty years above your loss
And are little consolation tonight.
Even grand failures were beyond your reach:
Those heartbreak letters written and burned,
That Jewish girl who rode your hand so deep
Into orgasm she could not return.
What night requires, the singing dawn gives back,
Trustworthy as your inevitable heart attack."
- Joe Bolton, from "Bad Sonnets"
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