screw poetry

I missed posting a poem yesterday, and today I am having a pretty shitty day. Here is a poem about the inadequacy of poetry; it's also a love poem. (I think I read more love poetry in hard times than in good times, which probably says something really interestingly psychological about me, but who the fuck knows what.)

Late night and rain wakes me, a downpour,
wind thrashing in the leaves, huge
ears, huge feathers,
like some chased animal, a giant
dog or wild boar. Thunder & shivering
windows; from the tin roof
the rush of water.

I lie askew under the net,
tangled in damp cloth, salt in my hair.
When this clears there will be fireflies
& stars, brighter than anywhere,
which I could contemplate at times
of panic. Lightyears, think of it.

Screw poetry, it's you I want,
your taste, rain
on you, mouth on your skin.

—Margaret Atwood (b. 1939), "Late Night"