My mouth, without breath,
Yesterday, spoke of certain death,
And now I lie here, as if to prove
Both I and this poem cannot love.
But listen, I am still breathing.
Every line of a poem must be
A little poem, miraculously.
There is nothing known
Quite like the boredom of a poem.
This one bores me to death!
So for excitement now,
I’m closing my eyes and holding my breath.
This is what poets do. They exaggerate
Stillness, memory, despair, hate.
Even so, this sweet deceiving
Is alive for you, and softly breathing.