I think a poet sometimes is a lighthouse,—
Stretching lonely on the edge of agitated waves,
the light she breeds brought low—

Or else, a grim librarian in spectacle,
Loaning out the cuckold truth like
rented candy canes—

The poet in me? Well, you see, a tidal romp
That rolls may fit, or else to sit with drool hanging
At the edge of shaggy lips, unfolded:
My silly heart there caught up wagging—

But mostly, dears, I rest my poetry in raw
Sunshine—the which would be a ray
without me anyway;

I borrow what I cannot afford
For dreams and life and good:
I make a miser mad with poor;
And prod our Nature’s ill.

—until, that is, I draw too close to
rays of light, and desperate truth, and
sickness groping death, and trees; I leave
them to the One who doesn’t write,

but frees.