DEJECTION: AN ODE TO FRIENDSHIP

Such natural delight, as conversation With one's friends, is gone. No longer am I Gratified by taste or touch, the scent Of freshness, song, or sunlight of the sea. Abroad the news is bad, and here now stirs A discontent, like fear among imagined Shapes at night, like noises in the house, Work still left undone or not done well.

A readiness is in the air, yet this

Is not the season of farewell-one knows These things somehow, or have I bent my mind To superstition in fatigue of sentiment?

In the street the clamor of oblivion, Activity to keep the mind from thought; And still the even day proceeds, a process Comforting in some vague sensual way. And then a screech, a thud, a cry, a scream: Agony without the numbing words.

Of higher explanation; violence

Beyond intent. Violence of falling

Stones on rainy nights, violence at sea,

Of water over towns, of a wind, of fire,

Of teeth, of knives: flesh burning, torn, deceived

By all the comforts of our slow natural

Decay. I will forego the luxury

Of contemplating purposes and ends;

Of glooms, dissensions with my faculties:

Come to me now and talk to me, my friends.

-Bruce Boysal

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