Better to be handsome, by far,
Than to be a poet—with a rhyme for every star.
Better to be handsome, by God,
Than hide behind scratched words—because you’re odd.
I want vision to be
Her, smiling, directly at me.
The poet’s wordy vision
Teaches pain and division,
Because words tell
The lies of heaven, the truths of hell.
Words are always a difficult sell—
Because they are words.
They do better when they are spoken by trumpets,
Or live in the popular songs of songbirds.
Someone in a suit sold us this plan—
Not by his words—it was the man.
And this beautiful lady, who you despise,
Now stands before me, alive in my eyes.
It is the look—yes, the look—which words cannot describe,
But go ahead, intone the bribe,
Speak your philosophy, say
With conviction, your words, before these clouds, flushed with pink and crimson, slowly drift away.