You don’t read Pound for his philosophy,
Nor the way he couldn’t laugh at what was funny,
Nor the innocence with which he left his pain
At the feet of crumbling statues.
No, as interesting
As all of that is, as interesting as his eyes and beard
And the diction bent unreal by desperation were,
You read him for his line, the way he hacked
And coddled the past as if each new word went too far
One direction.