In Theory I Don’t Exist*

(what kind of rope do philosphers in quicksand hold on to?)*

In Theory I Don’t Exist*

She’s read Bertolt Brecht, and
because she knows me
only as an actor on a stage, she

is not permitted by her fealty
to her professors to confess

empathy for me, a
dramatic character

no love for me, because
I am in Afghanistan

and she’s into New York
old chic-to-chic cheeky
old is new play, and
play’s the thing, but

there’s no sense in her
coming here unmindful
to play in a mine field

*”A history of alienation”