No relations for ten years because language
has failed me. Take the Tractatus
or even Nietzsche—the performativity of it all—
everything in the name of having it his way.
Totality. Diamonds. I believe love is metonymic—
“I displace the narratology of death
with you,” love’s deep structure
slippage, ambiguity, the scent of roses
withering in the sitting room. What if I said
they got married because they had to,
that the groom couldn’t see beyond it, the video
like an advertisement, the bridesmaids
reactionary in pink? [Apostrophe here
to Dido and Aeneas in the bridal cave, outside
the lightning their nuptial torches.]
No to metaphysics. No to the last few thousand years.
No to the sitting room. No to pink. No to what I let
happen. No to Ascanius out in the rain.
No to tradition. No to the bridal cave.
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