Max Fading

It is an illusion, but as much as possible
We must do the right thing at all times. I hate it. I hate writing about it.
I hate thinking about it. I hate pretending the poetry is sublime or
Beautiful or important. I hate pretending to like anything
Consistently. I hate pretending I’m not thinking about her

When I’m with the rest—I hate all the rest I hate you.
I hate the metaphysical and epistemological implications, squeezing the irregular
Rhythm of everything, nothing, however it feels
That day. I hate this knowing
That we are supposed to know—this feeling: whatever comes
Out; until

A little wave comes. Lovely.

Then someone will come and mention the moon again.

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