In my youth I turned from fame
And was never heard of again
The hexameters of my woes
And joys disappeared in the woods
Behind my house rewritten
In trillium and Judas trees
And one large open hilltop
Like a great clock
With sun-dials of oaks
I was finally the poem itself
Wandering in animal circles
But no real poem is meant
As long as a summer rain to last
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment