Time, o time: I am but a wastrel in a Cadillac
with a whole year of heartache
and a modest talent with words.
Look around. Everywhere things where they shouldn’t be.
But everything’s in reach. You’re in reach,
sometimes at night I think of reaching you
when happiness is a kind of hysteria
that requires looking in the mirror
for too long in the mornings. OK, the truth is better:
I’m better a little lonely. I’m better in the cold.
I’m better missing you from places I’d almost never escaped.
I’m better in New York, where I haven’t stopped looking up.
I’m better in New Orleans after all is lost.
Once all is lost, I’ll listen to your voice from Venice
or Neptune or wherever you’ve fallen in love to last.
I don’t know if technology fixes loneliness
but it will make sadness more precise.
I fall in love to you when
each transmission is complete,
when the last beer glass
still glows with light from the TV,
when I fill this house with song
and then burn it all down.