The Craft of Poetry
Once I made poems of glass, crystal pitchers
For wedding gifts, that sort of thing—very fussy…
That was two hundred years ago
And also perhaps tomorrow— Who knows?
Now, though, I try to fill them up: You see,
We’re fucking, making love, I mean, all across America;
She’s on top, humming, dancing some late-seventies
Disco thing, which is hilarious and a little scary,
And then (I can write like this, too): the agonized aspect
Of ecstasy familiar from our saints, our porn—
Then a little blood, semen, a taste of iron
On my tongue, stains everywhere, life!
Would you have some?
Then a hammer comes to shatter the glass.
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