I get the urge
to do the impossible:
to save what must leave,
to give weight to words
(though I make no claim
to understand
what they name)
and a hope-like shape
to tumultuous thought.
Is it reckless? Is it vein?
I ought to say
what they name)
and a hope-like shape
to tumultuous thought.
Is it reckless? Is it vein?
I ought to say
I don’t care.
But if you think about it,
the very fact
that this poem appears here,
lying patient as a snare
in the middle of this page
(or this screen, or wherever)—
and eager to catch
that which must pass away
already betrays
that I do anyway.
and eager to catch
that which must pass away
already betrays
that I do anyway.
deny it as I might,
the urge to write—
the compulsion
to tell someone
has somehow caught me
unaware that I’m sure
to tell someone
has somehow caught me
unaware that I’m sure
there's no such thing
as an art
of despair.
of despair.
