This is what you are:

Settled comfortably in the suburbs of my soul,
Not interested in birds without wings,
Having no expectations of honesty,
Telling the truth you lie most of all.

Your secular joys are secretly shameful,
You did not leave a blank space for me.
You have weak ankles, you fear to challenge fate,
You are so careful you take vitamins and diligently exercise.

You have indipendent judgements:
On shaking hands properly or dressing in good taste,
On current events, the corrida, silent German films, ritual guilts,
On clever jobs, with or without futures, or on fellowships,
On the American musical and editing good books.

Amateur skills like exotic cooking, exquisite collecting,
On very well paid regional dictatorships raising money for humanity,
On being beautiful,
On selling reproductions in museums, on dead terrorists,
On sonnets and white poems,
On drug addiction and on God.

Your small loves, you speak of heterosexuality, homosexuality,
Of beaches in Spain,
Of the undiscovered retreats in the South of France -

I won't get drunk at your party...

What is it like on the Flying Dutchman
Where is the country of love?
Where you come groaning
Without pity for my nakedness?

JK
2005