Poetry pretends
A love of rare, important things,
Beauty and truth and lost causes
Chasing each other like kittens,
But one wonders,
Given the housebound, homely lives,
Given the lovely, venal lives
Recorded for the finest poets,
How much of the blearing of minds
By burning midnight oil
Was actually devoted less
To scritching drafts of verses
And more to mundane wishfulness--
Less to revolutions, lovers without
Mercy, or the mysteries of grace
In a godless, god-soaked world,
More to common, improbable
Fantasies: lots of money, handsome
Houses high up on hills, paid for
And perfect, endless time to kill.
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