The best of this will speak to something greater
But I, alas, can only sing myself,
Sometimes not even that. A derogator
Might note my songs never sit on the shelf
Long enough to age. So, unimproved,
They are rushed green into the marketplace
Where, if by happenstance they should be moved,
The buyer must be ready to embrace
The stench of overactive poetry
Still clinging to the words. So do not look
For anything beyond, or inside, me
Contained within the circuit of this book
But simply see my glittering outside,
For if you look for more, I can't provide.
No comments:
Post a Comment