I sobbed and I loved,
And both felt real to me
If I sobbed as I loved.
For small winds aggrieve me more than any long, swelling stride.
Something about reminiscing,
Maybe I should take its side.
Pull and drain till the bath is full again,
Of dreams and conditions under which I could, after all be.
Poetry makes a fool of me.
A reek by the fountain where I wish.
On my back I toss a coin and make it spin.
I make it reach the famed country of the missed, to then hurry back –
I turn round for the hireling splash.
Is that it, can it be?
Has the effort bought me any glee?
Am I yet where I so need be?
Poetry, will you make good use of me?