A CRITIQUE OF POETRY

Here’s the same rain and its angry brushwood.
Salt, the sea in ruins ...
The above’s been crossed out, and the following written:
This arching sea, its roving,
rooted customs,
used in a thousand poems before now.

(Infected bitch, mangy poetry,
laughable strain of neurosis,
the price some pay
for not knowing how to live.
Sweet, everlasting, brilliant poetry).

Maybe it’s not the right time.
Our era
has left us talking to ourselves.