The price I pay for my poems:
I filter light and air, make
verse of phosphorescent hopes.
From paleness I progress
to full transparency.
I am invisible. Doors close
in my face with no one to hold
them open, feet stamp on mine,
elbows and briefcases jab me.
If I wave, no taxi stops,
or if it stops, another jostles in
to the seat that should have been mine.
Crowds pass me by
without a blink or nod.
Beauty becomes unbearable
to see, now that it's blind
to me. That I, its priest
and celebrant, should be
disbarred!
I leave my poems
where you might find them.
I wait at your kitchen table,
not offered tea, as you read
the newspaper, frown-puzzle
over the Sunday crossword,
then tip my manuscript
into the trash with grocer's ads
and mail-order catalogs.
You do not hear me
breathing; my ache for touch
is more than tracery of ink.
The poem you did not read
is not an artifact or monument.
There is blood inside.
— Jan. 1982, rev. 2020
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