Lives of the Poets

One stood among the violets

listening to a bird. One went to the toilet

and was struck by the moon. One felt hopeless

until a trumpet crash, and then lo,

he became a diamond. I have a shovel.

Can I turn it into a poem? On my stove

I’m boiling some milk thistle.

I hope it will turn into a winged thesis

before you stop reading. Look, I’m topless!

Listen: approaching hooves!

One drowned in a swimming pool.

One removed his shoes

and yearned off a bridge. One lives

with Alzheimer’s in a state facility, spittle

in his white beard. It

turns out words are no help.

But here I am with my shovel

digging like a fool

beside the spilth and splosh

of the ungirdled sea. I can’t stop.

The horses are coming, the thieves.

I still haven’t found lasting love.

I still want to hear viols

in the little beach hotel

that’s torn down and gone.

I want to see again the fish

schooling and glittering like a veil

where the waves shove

against the breakwater. Gone

is the girl in her white slip

testing the chill with one bare foot.

It’s too cold, but she goes in, so

carefully, oh.