Here's a poem you can't applaud for.
This is a poem written at a time of total self contempt.
Not total, if it were total I couldn't write the poem.
Entry: Today I did nothing.
I got up, ran a few miles, took note of the dead squirrels
and leaves on the birches turning
disgracefully yellow in August.
Then I sat on my hands, rested my exhausted body,
watched the weeds through the window.
I'm not proud of this.
I'm not proud of anything.
Like the man who bought too much at the market,
I want to take everything back, the hours without solitude,
the moments of kindness, come to so much change in the pockets.
It's a cold summer night more stars than sky.
I can think clearly tonight.
I light a cigarette and sit back in my chair wondering
where is there left to advance.
I run my hand through my hair and watch the circular moon
pull itself out of the Earth just like yesterday
and the day before.
Only it pales in its diminishment.
The apple devoured a sliver at a time.