But
how long must I be calm and pleasantly glad?
I
have read about love. It was sad.
The
man paced outside the window. The woman
Covered
her arms in folds of crimson and myrtle.
The
tradition arrived every night this year.
Every
woman attended. This is no exaggeration;
They
crowded, they pushed ahead—even the dearest woman.
I
affected learning. I thought this decision up in my own mind.
The
poetry readings, seminars; failures in oak,
Scratches,
graffiti, partly undressed tables, inside and outside the mind.
I
affected poetry. It did no good. I was too calm;
I
went on in hushed tones about my childhood;
Stood
near her by the window, even laughed.
It
wouldn’t do to repeat it now, even if I could.
There
is a need to exaggerate, even without drama or poems,
To
not flag, to make oneself happy; to pretend a woman’s figure
Will
make one happy, and this is all a man needs.
Life
is dull. We exaggerate. And so it proceeds.