There should be suns and filament clouds
Keening buildings and a rapture
Of hitherto unknown knowledge
A reveal of all that one should have done

Like a conversation with Fellini or Rilke, or Derrida — the bunch of us in a room with Joni Mitchell

Phones on, great laughs, scotch and smoking, everyone shooting video and texting whomever is in the twilight

It turns out I’m no more forward than I was at the end of the Harry Potters
Life is still more brushing the teeth than brushing the stars

The room is quiet but the exhaling of a radiator
There’s only little me here
Hearing a red eye on approach
Wondering what the fuck else must be done before the lights are out forever