Goodnight to these soliloquies of waste
which coat the page like rancid, holy oil
as if it were my head. The day’s replaced
with night. Goodnight to light that also spoils.
The light of words decays in putrid lines
of poetry. Bend closer; smell the page.
It reeks of death, a coffin; it consigns
the cells of knowledge to some lytic phage.
They say the king is dead; long live the king.
I’ll say it too. Why not? They’re only words.
Goodnight Laertes, Gertrude. Now let’s sing
goodnight to poor Ophelia. How absurd.
Don’t signify the candles no one lights;
just kill them all with Juliet’s “goodnights.”