To Make, To Hear

Poetry is very simple
mere experience, one-dimenstion of what's past
and proclaiming "I feel:" and maybe cute.
But put me into last night
still churning in my stomach; worries in the near subconscious
summoning clacks of watch-minutes.  I haven't finished timing
my hopes, worst my fears while I am going on
in the never-end.
                  Love's like that, both finished and restirred
bad memories with the silk touch of a strange beauty's hand
as she said, "I'm now from Baton Rouge," and I don't know how she came up,
                                                                 why she left, who she was or the
                                                                        past I was supposed to be.

Poetry is very simple when it's over;
you never know why it came up, to who you are.  It's saying
stuff unending about your worries not-quite experienced or your straining
to get through the day as in a dream
                                                         unawakened
in a present where you want nothing clear
but to enjoy the words and the sudden, unrecognized face
in the time of whoever you were.

                                                                                                                                11-30-1974
                                                                                                                                 new orleans