Enough dreadful nostalgia

Will the secrets of the body, the pleasure, the pain,
move on like night ferries abandoned by modernity,
like ghosts indistinguishable from the sea mist
so that you can look back fondly
and miss them?

Isn’t there enough dreadful nostalgia shambling the
earth in human form?

You who have been so full with the abandon of others
throw yourself on the hot rocks and flop around.

Body of ashes and filth,
breath of need and decay,
is that what you have been waiting for inside
the long and secret wanting:
the time when it will be impossible to hold
what you have been grasping for?

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