The Poem Not Written
I once tried to write a modern poem.
It was well struck –
Plucked like the string of a harp.
Dammit, that's one old object.
If you harp on my diction,
My words will metastasize.
A modern poem should mesmerize -
A quick hit to the gut,
An ephemeral sensation.
Ephemeral sounds old, too:
The humor is there
In the strangeness of our times,
That time’s very passage
Should fall behind the prevailing tides.
My words are lusty, light, and quick -
And it’s the style to speak before I think,
And style must go before I think.