poem XXX deleted

because it said (I wrote) "fuck me boots," not "war war war"
and last night's dinner conversation was torture, not poetry - (the friend that "hadn't heard" - washing dishes, she asked, "what torture?") - Slow to respond, thought maybe I shouldn't spoil the "fun" - I did. Being so much human failure is our incapacity or salvation? There must be someting salvageable, but hope is not resistance - is "love"?