Chrysippus laughed so hard
at a donkey who ate all his figs
that he died. Melville said Death
winked at him with the left eye.
I made up these three rules
to live by—can’t tell you the rules—
but know, they suggested
a structure, an elegant system.
Now I’m trapped in the system,
a man in a silent movie
who cut off his own arms
for love. I have to lie to God.
A column in the ruins.
I can’t tell you everything I know
all at once, the way the day
must suffer its own duration.
Elisa Gabbert is the author of seven collections of poetry, essays, and criticism, most recently Any Person Is the Only Self and Normal Distance. She writes the On Poetry column for The New York Times.
