Challenge for poetry:
to keep the reader from knowing
whom or what you’re
writing about, and yet be
entirely
cogent—images flowing
in lucid rivulets of poesy.
It seems that poets mostly
succeed in their mumblings
about whom- or what-
ever they’re vituperating so
emotionally—
but not emotively—about,
like roosters crowing. The poetry
is virtually meaningless,
making little impression
on you or me or
anyone. But nothing is revealed,
that’s the main thing—with the poet owing
no explanation, meeting the challenge
to be dust not manure.
