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.
