The Real Subject [whir] Poem by Keith Waldrop

Do not alarm yourself, I
could not rest content with
moral lectures and continual
repetition

like the solar system, I
could not hold my head up, made
endlessly to
glow

destined for grand ceremonies, I
was much affected by finding myself so
thin and so worn
down

(we use theory
to mean it is possible to
choose, e.g., why I am just the
size I am)

a million million, a
cool and mortifying manner — what
governs
motions