A poem, it must cut or hurt
Or, like the soft edges of the pages in a book
It must rub your back
and murmur,
softly

Ginsberg minced his words like cut garlic
They stung our eyes and made us wince
Tit, ****, *****t,
he said
Turpentine, purgatory, cuckhold

Auden spoke of love affairs with stars
Imagine his soft English face turned upwards towards the night
Whirr, kiss, chime
He said
Valley, geese, rhyme

You must read the poem first
Then throw it out
What does it look like now?
Pick it up
And read it again

Neruda made me feel a love I had never owned
I borrowed it, rented it, stole it
Clutched it greedily behind my pillow
Savored it, saved it
Fragrance, risen, fire and blood
He said
Love you blindly, he said

They made me heady
They made me speak of my self
To myself
In a stupor my head bent and I fell
Deep, dangerously deep into the verse
That was better seen lying face down,
Licked, kissed or risen
By centuries of poets that loved them blindly