Darling, you think it's love, it's just a midnight journey. <br />Best are the dales and rivers removed by force, <br />as from the next compartment throttles "Oh, stop it, Bernie," <br />yet the rhythm of those paroxysms is exactly yours. <br />Hook to the meat! Brush to the red-brick dentures, <br />alias cigars, smokeless like a driven nail! <br />Here the works are fewer than monkey wrenches, <br />and the phones are whining, dwarfed by to-no-avail. <br />Bark, then, with joy at Clancy, Fitzgibbon, Miller. <br />Dogs and block letters care how misfortune spells. <br />Still, you can tell yourself in the john by the spat-at mirror, <br />slamming the flush and emerging with clean lapels. <br />Only the liquid furniture cradles the dwindling figure. <br />Man shouldn't grow in size once he's been portrayed. <br />Look: what's been left behind is about as meager <br />as what remains ahead. Hence the horizon's blade.<br /><br />Joseph Brodsky<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/seaward/
