There's a poem right now that's
Nohow mine but keeps buzzing around
Saying I should write it down before
Its words faint from exhaustion and leave
Punctuation marks hanging in the air.
It's for sure not one of my poems and seems to be
About a girl named Loretta. Loretta has
Her points and her problems but the poetry of her
Gets right by me. I try to go back to my book but Loretta,
Who thinks I should be writing, looks through my eyes
And wants to know what makes the book more interesting
Than she is. It's not that, I'm sure the right author
(Who isn't me) will come along and turn you
Into a National Book Award and a life of
Reciting you at colleges and book clubs and
Perhaps a bowling alley. What's your book about? she says
And I say it's about Carnival season in Venice in
1755 and Casanova's having an affair with a nun
Who dresses as a man sometimes. How's it come out? she says
And I say Unhappily. The nun falls in love with
Another nun who leaves her for the French ambassador
And Casanova grows old, sitting in a library and writing books.
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