The Last Poem
Remember, poetry is not
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
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
That arrive like dew if you have the sense
To grow a garden,
Let no one talk you into languages
You do not know
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