from this week in February 1971 (I was 26)
Young
Poet
There was a time he could
not hold a thought
together long enough to
make much difference
Day passed upon daily poem
of 7 or 8 lines
and each of those only
echoes of the others
The nowness of now and
thenness of after
occasionally lost in a myth
of careless laughter
He had lost the overview of
time’s continuum
or had given it up for a
longer look at the moment
and still he found far too
much to see
trying to decide whom he
ought to be
Finally resolved that all
was all
he considered these
choices:
1)
a life of
arbitrary resignation
2)
scoff at the
absurdity
3)
gather more
evidence
4)
hide from the fact
Realizing he might have
time to choose all or none
he began doing number four
for now
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