My poems seem to
change in the summer
Ignoring me even
more than usual.
Come winter,
Raskalnikov and Little Nell
Will be after me to
write something for them
Gloomy, deep; poems
you can hit with a mallet
And leave no crack,
no chip, no dent.
(You there – trying
to recall where you left
Your mallet – put the
thought aside.)
The hot weather wants
airy poems, with holes
For the wind to blow
through, and hinges
So they can be put
away when it starts raining.
I assume Little Nell
and Raskalnikov
Are on vacation now;
talking on some beach
About Daniel Quilp and Sonia Marmeladov.
No comments:
Post a Comment