The Maker of Poems

Abstract

However you may, it's always for the first time, and you may wish it will last. Of course what you love will put you up to every wrinkle; whom you love will leave you, if you have not left already. The hands held lovingly behind overgrown hedges will turn out to be synthetic mittens. Each happiness will blossom forth like a shaded light from the anxious bulbs refused for the season: these tulips were never so beautiful; swinging-lights until they crashed their heads in the drive-way. Even so. The utterance will be marked; what you believe or do just might stretch the horizon over the inland sea, just a little; will be suspect everywhere. The City will register your Muse but as your girlfriend. Migrate, but you cannot go far enough. The country you live in may not be small but will have indefinite borders. A million starving babies will seem to stare at your meal; and you'd like to paint one for the man who's lost his shadow. And where are you at? So much as a cloudberry in the make-believe sunlight eclipses the carbon disc, causing tidal waves of hot water drowning out the meddling earth. But the cloudberry grows Guess you've put your finger on something that just cannot take it. The new country will landlock you into its own missionary or liturgical position; then convert your wife, enslave your children, send you to a loony-bin or exile without end; a hostage to time and its mutilations. You will hear and see more