Like other good poems, Nothing Satisfies is quintessentially circular, and as palpable as an actual experience. This poem, despite the title, totally satisfies.
The extraordinary trickles, just as expected.
As far as language goes, the northern coast of Massachusetts
looks magical, then something happens and one page
is no longer enough. I walk over and turn off the light.
It’s all so hopeless. Everything has its shadow,
the constraints desperately Audenesque.
I try to listen to Van Morrison, and for a while
I think I’m going to make it, get lost in the lounge room.
But it’s always now or never, nothing on TV,
the possible is terrible, the terrible so plain.
I try the radio, then another book, but my heart is restless
as a hive, dilatory and coronal, no pain.
Oracles are round, none the wise, the cornucopia
left on hold. I am separated by need.