To WH Auden

Every
Thing
Breathes
Now,
And everything that had excited me
Did not detain
The emptiness of this rainy room and its regardless inmobility.

Telling me how to write, and
Being right about it
You have killed all hope
In form and fancy, and
Have made me rapidly reach for my notebook.

I thirst! for poems again, not those
I feel inside that I will never know to write
But those in books that streak some color on my fruitless
All too sensitive all to sensible
Uncomfortably
Twisted tired, sleepy dreamless
Undecided
Mind that minds.