Sometimes it's just you and me, Marianne
Moore
Who seem e-
quipped
to hate it properly; we squeeze the very real
toads
‘til their sour juice oozes through or figural
fingers. They seem to dwell
In a garden of dreams. But when the lines
trip too easy across the strand in palimpsests preposterous, in rivulets
of divergent obsessions
about which we politely pretend
to care, is our dislike not earned? But, as other hates,
imaginary as they are, could even we
go a day without?