To Marianne:
Consider
this situation/question: is it
ironic if I love
to write what I dislike
to read
and is it a matter of
purpose, a necessity as they name
this modern mass
of floating letters
or is this random, really
or an arrangement of flowers, how do they
sense its sequence ---
to "feel" or "hear" the "rightness"
of look, of meaning
if ever there is
one?
perhaps --
you understand us/me
best --- "that we
do not admire what
we cannot understand" ---
but does this
remove my bitterness/fear
or me
from the sphere
of Poetry?