Unfinished, unable, distracted—
How easily we reproach ourselves for our lives lived badly,
How easily us undo.
Despair is our consolation, sweet word,
                                                    and late middle age
And objectivity dulled and drear.
Splendor of little fragments.
Rilke knew one or two things about shame and unhappiness
And how we waste time and worse.
I think I’m starting to catch on myself.
                                    I think I’m starting to understand
The difference between the adjective and the noun.

Charles Wright, “Disjecta Membra”, in Black Zodiac