This is also the joy everlasting ..." - Delmore Schwartz
Past the words
No one reads,
Words not heard,
Never written,
Even uttered,
There are figures
Of our feelings
That are dying
From the lack
As if stuck
At the bottom
Of a well
And there only
Is a bucket,
No rope
And a poet
To throw it
In the drink
As the people
Crowd the brink
Unable to see,
Unable to think,
And wait for
The inevitable
Plop
As if the sound
Blanks the slate,
Like a branch
Will scratch
A pane
And make us forget
We are cold.
