The Man with the Blue Guitar XV

Is this picture of Picasso’s, this “hoard

Of destructions,” a picture of ourselves,

Now, an image of our society?

Do I sit, deformed, a naked egg.

Catching at Good-bye, harvest moon.

Without seeing the harvest or the moon?

Things as they are have been destroyed.

Have I? Am I a man that is dead

At a table on which the food is cold?

Is my thought a memory, not alive?

Is the spot on the floor, there, wine or blood

And whichever it may be, is it mine?