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.