I
Poetry is heresy,
Weird as any Mennonite doctrine
Or Ophite sect.
Such is my ceremony:
Beholden to no-one,
Sharing with anyone.
The life you live-not yours-
Is yours.
You write what you write.
No doubt.
Whatever remains will stay.
Nothing and no-one,
No relationship on earth,
Will ever match this marriage with words.
II
The first man in this skin,
The first and the last,
I machine vast engines of creation and destruction,
Plot graphs of increase,fluctuation and decline,
And work at my words
As my words work at me,
Hoping to get home.
Find a nice bridge to jump from,
A perfect cantilever,or a well-made suspension,
Aesthetically pleasing to death.
The mathematics of your jump will be fantastic,
With no effort on your part.
Poetry is a kind of euthanasia:
Gently gradually putting yourself to sleep,
With understanding,with love.
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