The Last Poem
Remember, poetry is not
Read.
It is uttered sincerity,
Or your child's eyes
Spoken in what you do.
It is every brick you kiss as you build,
Or a curse in the absence of love.
As for poets, they are all around you
Hidden in bad employment or
Prose. And remember each metaphor is
A house you will have to live in,
And wisdom is knowing when to leave.
You will have to pronounce "sentiment"
As something that is the reason for
Doing anything,
In a country that fears its heart.
This too is a cross,
No greater than the market greed
And the golem of bright ideology.
And then there are the poems that are
Prayers,
That arrive like dew if you have the sense
To grow a garden,
Let no one talk you into languages
You do not know
Beyond feeling
That said, you are a poet, and the world will fear
You and desire you
As a blessing,
And if you are useless for a time
There will be a way to return home,
When your words are needed,
When the dreams are revived,
And the fevers of children
Are ended.
