(Warning: May contain spite.)
Solemn opening with a particular visual object
that is symbolic
yet
seemingly inexplicable.
Emotional complexity builds, gloomy and relentless.
There will be no exclamation points in this poem.
The object has increasing feeling for
the narrator, and is sexual, but also bleak
and existential-
somehow.
No need for feeling and passion here,
this is art.
No room for that in poetry anymore.
A highly enigmatic and quiet, desolating ending
that leaves the reader amused and vaguely
contemplative.
Conor Crockford, USA
The Social Poet 