nothing really has stirred me lately
except the only things that do stir

because when I read Abramović
it feels like coming into my own
and when I found O’Hara
I knew the boundless artist
even
on the morning that you called
and we talked about meaning and matter
I bridged such peace to another

it wasn’t when he tied my wrists
or when they bought my drink
it wasn’t at the warring games
or the nicotine haze on the dancing girls
no, it was nothing in the communal soup
of graded action and fraternal caption

it was in the intersections of the sublime
woven in the threads of my hours
nothing has stirred me lately, dear
except the deafening everything.