Untitled (in view)

For Masha
…

In view

of the city’s

resonant blue

before rippling summer’s

inadequately romantic mood,

he asks, “Do you

really want to fuck?” As if.

In a cash-green élan

the Brooklyn rich

cannot get rid of themselves,

or their charter schools.

For this, do not forgive them.

You, on the other hand,

are almost never yourself

at such instances, photos

of Swiss summer

with Spanish celebs,

caught in the maw

of Love’s

dog,

hung on the

jaw of

“this fair outside,

which our hearts

doth move” (P. Sidney)

and move you

to whomever you

seek to be moved to,

all things trending toward

the topic of my crush.

I can’t get over it!

By which I mean he who

catches me unawares, in July’s

cruel whip. By which I mean

he who catches me

in “grim reality’s

recurring bit,” or,

as Adam Phillips writes

in “On Frustration”:

“How

does anybody

ever get any pleasure?

Does anybody ever get

any pleasure?

And if they do,

is it worth

it?”