I Don’t Think You Will Ever Fly Because I Don’t Think You Believe in Wings, But That’s Okay

Oh, I read your poetry
and like it and then learn
you are eighty-three-years-old.
Your poetry is a fine nest.
I see you in black and white.
You have a giant head
like a baby bird, a nestling
with white tufts.
I only just discovered you.
I worry soon you will
be pushed out of the nest
of your poetry and die
there on the sidewalk,
prematurely scrambled,
if there is such a thing
as being “prematurely scrambled”
at eighty-three.
I think there is.
I hope you stay in there.
I hope your eggshells
keep you warm.


Every child is naturally.    Cy Twombly.
But we destroy this.    Destroy their nerve.
By telling them.      “This is the beginning.”

They will obey.    Like sailors in Homer.
They have no idea.    How hellish.
How long it will be.     To get back to the beginning.

Should they ever be so brave.     So Homeric.