No one wants to be the muse;
in the end, everyone wants to be Orpheus.
(out of terror and pain)
and then overwhelmingly beautiful;
not Eurydice, the lamented one,
but the ardent
spirit of Orpheus, made present
not as a human being, rather
as pure soul rendered
through deflected narcissism.
I made a harp of disaster
to perpetuate the beauty of my last love.
Yet my anguish, such as it is,
remains the struggle for form
and my dreams, if I speak openly,
less the wish to be remembered
than the wish to survive,
which is, I believe, the deepest human wish.