Depression in Early Spring
Erica Jong

Meathooks, notebooks,the whole city sky palely flaming& spectral bombshitting that patch of riverI see from my eastern window.The poets are dead, the city dying.Anne, Sylvia, Keatswith his passionate lungs,Berryman jumping from the bridge & waving,all the dreamers deadof their own dreams.Why have I stayed on as Horatio?Anne sends poems from the grave,Sylvia, letters.John Keats's ghostly coughcomes through the wall board.What am I doing here?Why contend?I am a corpse who moves a pen that writes.I am a vessel for a voice that echoes.I write a novel & annihilate whole forests.I rearrange the cosmos by an inch.

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