Nutshell Kingdom: If You Ask, I Will Tell You What Happens To The Poets
2008

I was a major poet
with minor ideas,
prone to the flattery
of alcohol, the arms of bed.

The force of my affection
was not enough
to turn my tongue
or learn the languages.

While an insufficient loving
can float you through
a day or a night
or a few wonderful verses,

it will not do to call
on immortality, to demand
what ambition suggests,
it will not do to call

on a muse or heaven
for what I have offered,
a fleet dash of dream,
a tunnel of love

deep into the deceitful
theater of plants, the ant
and grasshopper both
play their summer-stock,

hit their marks and move along,
away from the photosynthetic
house lights, a fate of soil,
a falling away of glamour.

It is like that always
with the ants and the poets,
with the grass and the light.
Energy never dies

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