People like my poems of old age, and I’m
surprised. I miss the old times
when I was in
my prime and full
of poetic energy—
of frenzy
concentrated in a kind
on the language, the form, the contents of my mind.
Now the poems come while I’m playing
my Nintendo game or
staring at the indigo bunting on my feeder,
so bright in the sunshine of May.
They come incidentally, haphazardly . . .
hap-hazard. Hap
Hazard.
The steady changeability of events—that’s what people
like,
a loss of control
in the final nonchalance
as the grains of sand slip down.
WHAT GOES
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