by David Markson
The women said:
Is there any point in reducing
Every damned question to sex?
There was Mozart on.
And what she really
Meant was: Couldn’t we maybe delve
Into a few dozen more of her neuroses
Before we screwed again?
Now here is what was actually
In my own head around then:
That funeral, in that rain,
Where nobody could spare the time
To set some shabbiest of signals
At his grave.
I assume I’ve already
Telegraphed the last part of this.
Naturally I forgot her name.
But I could diagram exactly
Where the turntable stood.

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