On my way to work, I pass newsstands, headlines insisting, IT'S OVER.

I /sigh/ At work, my first impulse is to, at least, mutilate yesterday's poem. Later I think, Obliterate it. Take it out of its misery.

It is marked by conceit, by my conceit that simply writing it down might, somehow, make all of it /death/winter/Bush/rain, rain go away.

I am too comfortable to be writing this kind of poem.

Wait just four more years.

[...]

Of course I let it stay. The poem is, after all, inchoate Frankenstein of my frustration, mewling impotent and clumsy. Let it nip at my heels as I search for a better shape to assume, something that seems more apt at encompassing ambiguities, senseless loss, cold tight earth. Maybe I should muzzle my emotions. Numb, maybe I'd feel safe once more, if only for a little while.

Again, I ask, will language save me?

[...]

He's new to diaryland.

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