i read your book and, great poems, but then i thought, so what?


he says

and i think
exactly right

there is nothing much in this thing
poets live for

the flash of blue

across a dark sky

snow in spring

the storming line
useless, really

for life


but still

we write
and sometimes

through the fog of utlility

there is a girl

in a dress

or a tear running


down the page
most of our lines

are not for now
they are for later
when the skies open
for when the reality

of what we have done

becomes apparent
poems are for death

for birth

for love
they are with us then
and it is hard
to ask for a better defence


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