Thursday, September 1, 2022


The poem I just deleted 
before I cobbled this one

was constructed 
like the elegant folds 
of a rose—

complex in all its frailties, 
perfumed with allusions, 

and yet, unmistakably 
simple and direct 

as its scent 
on the wind 
to get.

But now that its rash 
demolition is finished, 

you'll have to agree
that what's left
is much better, 

since, even though 
the substandard 
words here presented

express no sterling 
answers to your 
metaphysical questions, 

the sheer availability 
of extraneous information 

somehow short-circuits 
the demand
for counterfactuals 

and makes our 
sad lots 
feel superior.