I want to read a couple of poems from this new book.
This one's called "The Noose of Apathy."
I saw the executioner and in his hand
he bore the noose of apathy to tighten at my throat.
Always had I imagined him otherwise
and had not thought in this guise to see him come,
a sober and fastidious pedant proffering tedium.
Now when I think of death I know its modes.
The lasso in the teacup, the angel driven from the door.
Most of all that deadly daily itching sore
which corrodes and corrodes