And if you see Creeley, remind him
that he's dead. Tell him that none of it
mattered in the end, not the words, not
the silences, not the endless fucking
theories.
It was February, and then it was
August, and then we finally reached
November. Age of nothing, land of less,
and what should be obvious is that
Cobain's suicide meant more than the
deaths of a million geriatric presidents.
Do you remember the song you were
singing when you heard the news
about Reagan?
The name of the woman you were with?
It was almost enough just to lie on
the bed and laugh.
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