When she compared poetry in the first person to "torture"
she of course was talking about herself
as I, in recalling what she'd said to mind,
reflect how it applies to me.
The reading that we do, of other people's poems,
how they could be extensions of our own
as easily as nails to seal our coffins;
open or close, what a choice.
This one thing left that's private in a narcissistic world
and we the voyeurs of the hermetic;
even the most discreet sounds grate, turn to questions
that can't be answered in our own words.
