If We Really Want To

About Suffering They Were Never Wrong, The Old Masters.

The Glacier Knocks In The Cupboard, The Desert Sighs In The Bed, And The Crack In The Teacup Opens A Lane To The Land Of The Dead.

Evil Is Unspectacular And Always Human, And Shares Our Bed And Eats At Our Own Table.

Encased In Talent Like A Uniform, The Rank Of Every Poet Is Well Known; They Can Amaze Us Like A Thunderstorm, Or Die So Young, Or Live For Years Alone.

Recipe For The Upbringing Of A Poet: 'as Much Neurosis As The Child Can Bear.