In such moods--which you might liken to the sensation of catching my fingers in a pretend-mousetrap--I'm liable to hear Hayden Carruth's voice in my head--not necessarily a specific poem, more like some version of his point of view, the way he clashes civilizations and chaos. Or maybe I find myself bumping against his sharp, sardonic, sad northernness.
In "They Accuse Me of Not Talking," he writes: "But take / notice please of what happens. Winter on the brain. / You're literate, so words are what you feel."
Yes, I think, trying not remember how the poem ends:
Then you're struck dumb. To which love can you speak
the words that mean dying and going insane
and the relentless futility of the real?