A Whimper

But who will write the poetry of boredom? Line
Following line, without following, just the eyes
In their habituality, uncaused, barely in motion,
As if looking across snow,
Fields and fields of snow.

There is a beauty in such stuff
Which is the beauty of
Not beauty, not ugly, just
Calm

(The serenity of idols eyes half-closed in the glowing
Gold is absent) --

Heaps and heaps of it:
Which is the beauty of wordiness, worldliness, verbosity,
The beauty, in fact, of prose, my prose,
Whose murmuring waters
Creep closer and closer to the shore,
Pulling each particle away
Into an indifferent communion with
All, the stasis of the end as a slow
Unwinding, as if the eyelids grew heavy,
Against their will, and the mind unfolds

And everything begins to
Droop, begins to sleep; it falls asleep.