In place of tonight's MTV music awards, let me offer a poem for your discernment:

We begin to act like those bereaved.

We build an Acropolis, but the bedroom
is too small. There are no birds to rouse us.
We ask why, ask for something intimately
written in the dark. What are we suppose
to do? Why this insistence on structure
and permanency? Even sex has become
only a small comfort, difficult now that it is marred
with consideration. Hands drape from my face,
the stars behind me. Each constellation becomes
a text, a point of observance, and thus definition.

Each small thing
Each small place
Each small poem
Each small view
Each small theory
Each small everything

Everything has its small death—stars even more so.
You give this to me for comfort; a caress carefully
sewn and left for me to find and return.