What if my poetry is vanity?
It must be. For who writes my poetry but me?
And where are you located when I write?
Does it matter? What does my poetry know of sunlight?
What does my poetry know of you and me?
Who tells me what to put in my poetry?
What pretends to be the bright day inside the cloudy night?
My poetry. That means something isn’t right.
And now what pretends? Is that not vanity?
What does my poetry really know?
Can we discuss that later? Here’s the door. Here’s the world. Let’s go.