IMAGINE

The insane were going on about poetry

while the big oil truck leapt forth in the snow;

the young driver was scared: go, go, go, go.

“Poetry is finally image.” No, we don’t see;

we think we see. In my idealism

I think: we only think we are sad.

We think we can see—is that so bad?

We think poems allow us to see

but all I see is words.

I knew a guy once who thought heaven

was nothing but a forest with birds.