A READING OF CONRAD AIKEN

Maybe I don't love anyone in particular, she said
looking through the glass
(Poetry just doesn't do it forme anymore) —What?
His friend raised her eyebrows     My poetry
(Garbage)     That void I feel after an
orgasm     (Damn it, if I keep writing this
I'll really feel it)     Cock erect
while Pain is building     (She dressed
quickly: red silk stockings)     A jazzed up
air, a way of speaking      (I improvise,
therefore I am, what was that guy's name?)
Descartes     Garbage     (It's so cloudy, she said
looking up)     If you could see
your own smile     Anonymous saints
Names without meaning