Next Time Let’s All be Landscape Architects or Something

Being a poet has nothing to do
with writing poetry. To be a poet
you just write poems, any poems
and there you go. All that’s left
is finding your adjective: Trite
or amateurish or pathetic or sad
successful or forgotten or unknown
or vain or desperate or the best
poets know this is subjective
and irrelevant but also too that
there is something objective here.
First you must write, that’s true.
Second you must fail (in public
repeatedly, I know, I’m sorry).
Third you must quit and live again
with new eyes. Now I wonder
if she still gets out of the shower
without drying off and leaves a trail
of wet footprints — Who can follow
such vanishing points? All I know
is being a poet has nothing

mexico-091

to do with writing poetry.

the dancing of the lumps

In all the wends and winding ways
(the castles of our pride)
we used to bend and bind the days
the past we sent won’t stay away
__and coming home it sighed.

When we the lumps who want & dwell
(within the sad inside)
upon the stumps of trunks that fell
dance and sing again we tell
__the fire that we lied.

Because at last we had to look
(when hope at last had died)
into our glass with hands that shook
(with eyes that hadn’t cried)
we saw the love she came and took
__and somehow
we survived.

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