I squint at poetry
The beauty is too soft to bear
Some days.
And sounds of music disappear
So quickly into my veins:
Not with the piano will I stretch,
Not with the harp.
But squirm with the whiff
Of nicely paved lines or notes
Or even dry leaves ,
Wherever it goes after my blenching,
Seas or skies,
Ever green or quick to blight,
Once I am done with the burning shame,
Every bit that is left from what I am
Comes harder, comes stiff.
I squint at poetry
The beauty is too hard to bear
Some days.