commerce of the "infant century," crowds, crowds,
"the certainty of others," the bomb
that filled the air with horsehair and the ambulance after:
why wouldn't I hide in my little glass body? I have a clover sprig
made of glass to aspire to, with my glass appetite.
I raise certain questions about art and its relation to stasis,
yet I despise the formalists as naïve and ahistorical.
Here's my problem with America: this "would be" that obliterates
all other moods, playing over and over in people's heads,
the abstract optative that destiny works out.
I don't have the luxury to think in terms of destiny.
What nobody seems to get about me is, though you're made of glass
it doesn't mean you don't have appetites: I do. Or fears: I do.
The day the darkness took the whole basilica, I was afraid;
and equally afraid the day, centures later, they swtiched the lights on.
Let rabbits think in terms of destiny: Whitman, the great
American rabbit poet, the rabbits in the government,
the rabbits that light and the ones that snuff out the fuse,
and all their pretty rabbit children, waiting to be casserole.
[from October 17, 2005 issue of The New Yorker]