There’s no one in your poetry, she said.
It’s an abandoned barracks, I replied.
It’s a prefect vacuum.
Nothing ever happens, she complained.
That’s because we’re tired, I explained.
Certain circumstances are vying to defeat us.
Another thing I’ve noticed,
she continued, is that there’s never any mention
of your family, about your actual life.
Be very quiet, I whispered.
Sound travels differently on other planets.
Knowing a thing doesn’t make it right.
And something else I don’t like, she went on to say,
as if it were important that I should understand —
it’s the way your poems end…
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