here is some polite narcissism: she writes
but she will never be Known;
she puts too much
in each poem.
other people write: bright days,
depression, love, woman,
sex, lies, lust, morning.
she writes: lovelustsexdepressiongirlcomingofageselfimagehatedepressionpomegranitesredboyshope.
it is impossible
to break the constellation
into stars.
or—maybe—it is possible,
but why should she try?
if her art exists only for orange lights
on the internet,
what
is the point?
the last pavilion 