When I compare it to science’s
ambition or money’s angry lust
don’t you wonder about poetry’s
staged performance problems
or her self-respect
as when beauty’s snubbed or tamed
by the mind in favor of
loose matter sloughing off
or striding down toward some
sandy replication
which is always a beach
in a walled garden
where you can sit so still
you become someone
else’s conflagration.
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