Why does a Poet write a Poem
when Poems will not be heard?
Or Fishers dangle in unctuous streams
for carp no one will eat?
Then, too, the wife marries managed
into state when all of love is ruined—why?
Does it matter what sense should say?
Or is this just another way for
faith to stretch its roots and quiver:
“There must be purpose to being I”?
So then: Is a Poet blood and skin and
verses, or heart all threadbare—lost?
Would seafood mounted up for dinner
say more than fishers coiling twine?
Or still: Is there anything in marriage
but a state of that which love is made,
and perhaps did not wait before—?
Then, my friends, it is more being than
in doing find we fits of Truth and He:
However you spell divinity, it comes
Not surer than in vow and net and
inspiration, all of which are free—