We Will Never Learn
Where have these disappeared to, the green ones?
Tongues against the darkness are seething.
While ice sifts in your next scotch, poisoned rivers wait.
Cold and clear, the air cut like a cone.
In this dry dissolving, I await you from your glare.
You can see that part of me wants to die,
But you don’t want me yet, without moving.
Sexless like an oval, an alien turns his back to you.
Sean Singer’s first book, Discography, won the 2001 Yale Series of Younger Poets Prize, selected by W.S. Merwin, and the Norma Farber First Book Award from the Poetry Society of America. He is also the recipient of a Fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts. He lives in New York City.
