Friday, March 5, 2021


Before you were born, 
there were whispers—
there'll be whispers long 

after you're gone. Unreal things 
have a being all their own. 
But still you cannot yield.

Charioteers and chariots, 
fantastic winged horses, 
the real face of Plato—

are all, perhaps this 
very minute, wheeling fantastic
arcs across heaven.

You'll laugh, you'll sing, 
you'll write poems, 
but you know 

you can never yield 
every last part to this 
gorgeous nonsense. 

Each time you remember 
what doesn't exist 
you dip a little in your flight.

The turbulence
is not emotional. You agree
the horses of the gods are noble.

But until you plunge 
headfirst into the sea,
your disciplined heart

can never yield. 
And that's how you know
you aren't free.