XXI
                                                                                   He hates to think
                              of poesis negativa, he hates the Possum
                              more than he does the Pound, he longs for a thing
                              he only has a thought for, he regrets now
                              more than ever the language he used for that thought,
                              the stubbornness, and lack of knowledge, how he
                              struggled, how he just couldn’t focus, how
                              the words and the feelings took such a long time to come
                              and that is why in his eighties he does as he does
                              and it is blood now he thinks about for blood
                              is just underneath the skin and just prick it
                              with one of his needles and look at the meter and what
                              stands for meanness and what for stupidity
                              for which he closes his eyes to wait for the number, for
                              he has squeezed the skin already and watched the
                              drop of blood appear.