Poets Are Smarter

Spent the night on a good-sized sofa stretched along glass-fronted BILLYs full of poetry books. In the morning, I read this:

I cannot go on
restricting myself to images

because you think it is your right
to dispute my meaning:

I am prepared now to force
clarity upon you.

I show it to my friend Peter, whose copy of Gl├╝ck’s The Wild Iris it is, and I wow at it. “I’m stealing that,” I say, pointing at the final two lines. “Somehow. Might be a good epigraph for something.”

“It’d be a good epigraph for something about comedy,” he tells me.

Poets! They’re like drum sanders; you should be able to rent one out.

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