It’s hopeless, my life like my sweating over you, nondestructive, unextreme. I crack up when someone mentions reincarnation, but next time you’ll pick a family from a line of tenured scientists in the non-snickering future. We on the left are depressed because ours is a classless de-corporated shtetl — no need for socialists, time will tell. Tho, maybe there’s no option?

You’d still love political poetry, but with reservations because of the dirt, the skid marks and resonance of decay, “refined by distance.” I’m sure you could tell.