Lately I have always felt so happy about my feelings.
My mental life resembles an impressive tower
and below it a thicket and a bulging knoll. Every
tragedy of late seems only half wrought. I tell myself,
Dear Diary, I have many important feelings
and would like to express them. Then a gnome
appears on the grassy knoll and waves to me.
The wind literally kisses my hair. I say, Yes, gnome?
Which artifacts, it asks, from your mental life
would you like placed in the September
11th Memorial Museum? Before I can answer,
the wind rushes through the thicket. Papers
loosened from the branches blow over
my vast domain. The sun has begun to go down.
The princess upon her mattresses cannot sleep
because the sleeping pill lodged several mattresses
below disturbs her delicate back.