We live, maestro, in closed spaces, & this world
moves on as though contemptuous of human words—
yet opening yellow books, we discover causes
meaning, essences of some inconsequential truth
By the window, we split hairs over lines & dots:
Outside, the sun blazes as it did on Aztecs eons ago
& forefathers whose ruins yawn like bad archeology:
How do the mighty fall? O Poetry is cold comfort!
Tell me, maestro, can we pin the meaning of it all?
Craft speaks only of craft; & should jewels, psalms
burn between our eyes, will heaven open at once?
The rules of passion & decay are ever on display
beyond this workshop of words where scholars build
wooden ships: O Poetry in open fields must explode!
From Collection / Rosary of Summer, 1977