by Anne Carson
It’s good to be neuter. I want to have meaningless legs. There are things unbearable. One can evade them a long time. Then you die. The ocean reminds me of your green room. There are things unbearable. Scorn, princes, this little size of dying. My personal poetry is a failure. I do not want to be a person. I want to be unbearable. Lover to lover, the greenness of love. Cool, cooling. Earth bears no such plant. Who does not end up a female impersonator? Drink all the sex there is. Still die. I tempt you. I blush. There are things unbearable. Legs, alas. Legs die. Rocking themselves down, crazy slow, some ballet term for it —- fragment of foil, little spin, little drunk, little do, little oh, alas.