Everything continues much as before, especially the war, But also the daily dressing and undressing. The left and right half Of the body remained conjoined, and there's still that chasm Between reflection and self. And people kill and breed Not just out of desperation, but to pass the time. Poets, so they tell us, are awkward customers Not up to much. Even laughter has a keener, full-throated edge When they're not around. They're not very amusing. After hymning evil and violence in six long cycles, Lauttéamont the scorpion wheeled around. His magnum opus on good remained a pious sketch. Baudelaire, prepared to saw through his throat with a blunt knife When the first broadsheet newspaper was printed, Thought, not for the last time, the end of poetry was nigh.