NOW LET ME RETURN

You make love 
to Wittgenstein, Tokyo and lichen
in your blurbs for New Directions;
the anxiety of flux is happy
to spill on your carpet;
impregnated by Cat Stevens
and Syd Barrett,
the uncanny reigns in your mouth.
Now let me return to my poetry,
trusting in many things:
Language. A line which simply sings.
I know the old forms are fallen
and the new
runs in dark alleys on the other side of you.
That's all bullshit, you know.
The old forms are grass.
They move in the wind. They grow.