a useful thing to see the earth twisted up like this;
it is our minds that are twisted, and you
are twisted too around a spoon, and drunk, I’m sure
by now, like me, past Newfoundland’s shore
with other peoples’ wine and dotted lines
to Bruxelles where I will only be
to switch planes, but you, I think, first went
there of all the other places you’ve been,
gobbling up the light as you went,
sending presents wrapped in maps.
About this poem:
"I was fascinated, reading Catullus translated by Peter Whigham, how he writes in several modes that are unpopular today: letters and maledictions in particular. And he calls everyone by name. So I wrote a letter to my uncle. I was also interested in seeing if I could write differently, and Catullus and I sure write differently. Like many of his, this poem is only one sentence."
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