I need a juicer and a trampoline.
The consolations of philosophy
bear an inverse relation to
the disappointments of erotic life
and all the poets are lifting weights.
Goodbye, little ship, fair winds, full sails!
It’s sometimes a surprise how
wonderful the awful often is.
I want to say often twice
and wonderful again out of spite.
Without the agony or devotion
I’d like the ecstasy of St. Teresa
or a honeybee to carry me
to the heart of the final, mortal thing.
I’d like the world not to end
before the soul can ascend
but I think I’ve picked up a limp.

I need a juicer and a trampoline.