Like in a nursery
rhyme, he knows—
the most vital and powerful words
can, at first
sound deceptively simple.
Therefore, in order to survive,
he keeps repeating
the tiniest poem he
knows by-heart—
One day, I / shall finally
be sad / in a way
that they / could never understand.
Every day, he disciplines himself
by picturing—being shown his whole future
in some miraculous vision,
and then
abominably refusing
to do a single thing differently.
And one more thing.
A poet never laughs, either—he gafaws.
Or else, he snickers a little,
but with that same
pained and knowing kind
of mirth you used to hear
in little kids singing—
ring around the rosie!
pocket full of posies! etc. etc.
True, like everybody
else, he sometimes enjoys making a plan
and sticking to it;
but only from memory,
after he's caused a big scene—and publicly
burned the blueprints
in effigy, because—
ashes, ashes! We must. All.
Fall down.
