Found in Selected Poems Michael Hofmann
It's just abstract, you say: when I'm not here,
I don't exist and my perspectives are warped.
Nostalgia, the bloom of recollection -
a false spring ... You can't run your life
by these conceits like productivity agreements.
... It's a holiday of some sort.
The music on the radio is for kissing.
You go to visit your thin-lipped friend,
who happens to be a musician himself.
You drink wine and sit at a table
and talk. Some things you talk around.
Then you are on the same side of the table.
He haas some Durex, you let him fuck you.
- He was kind of lonesome, as the words go.
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