The Method
J. D. McClatchy

When you're away I sleep a lot,
Seem to pee more often, eat
Small meals (no salad), listen
To German symphonies and...listen.

Sympathy, more often than not,
Is self-pity refined to Fire
And German symphonies. _Nun lesen_.
Read a book. Write "The Method."

Or is self-pity, refined, two fires
Seen as one? Instructions collapse:
_Write_ the book. (Read: a method.)
The hearth's easy, embered expense,

Seen as one instruction, collapses
In the blue intensity of a match.
The heart's lazy: remembrance spent
Forgetting. Love, break a stick.

In the blue intensity of as much
It is bound to catch--the far away--
Forgetting love. Break a stick.
The flames are a reward, of sorts.

They're bound to reach that far away.
The book says so. And who can't say
The flames are his reward? Of course
They are dying. Still, they scorch

The book. Say so, and--two can play--
Fires kindle (_smack_!) their own display.
They are dying, still. How they scorched
When I put this light to time.

Kindled fires smack of their own display.
Of smaller denials, no saying. Listen:
Where I put this light, it's time,
When you're away, asleep, or lost.