It won’t let you write the poem,
A ceiling in the leak that cries,
Every minor and living disaster
Moves you quickly from one thought to the next;
The poem is lovely. It flies
From those who want it;
But you never see its face at all;
Black minnows in the green harbor,
Silver in the shadows when they writhe,
Swarm in the millions; in numbers like that,
Nothing is truly alive. It become a mind like yours,
Which, when it moves, doesn’t see,
Which is jealous—your eyes narrow as you listen to me.
It won’t let you write the poem—
Because you think the poet is lazy.
You are not. Nor are you crazy.
You stroke the mental pussy;
You can’t put conclusions away.
It won’t let you write, or sit in a chair with your mind.
But did you want anything
To do with what you were, anyway?
You are afraid. The poem comes
To the innocent soldier among the sums.