You never say what you mean
out of respect for everything.
Is it good to be quiet about so much?
To pay so much respect
to what is rich—because you are lean?
It gets to the point where
the unspoken is copied unknowingly
in front of poets who are dead.
The torso of tradition
continually thwarts the head.
No wonder poem after poem looks the same!
The wicks of candles wish
for a taller, hotter, flame.
When you blow them out,
their death shows you every name.
The death of them
is your life, you know.
You can’t see what you need to see
when you see it from below.
You can’t take one step more
knowing what you know.