A poem lives briefly,
As a sequence of phones
But dies, quite quickly, on the wind.
Survives as a system of sense,
proposing a personal range of pleasure and pain:
Purely personal, scaringly intense,
Sometimes the one, sometimes the other,
Sometimes blending the two in equal measure,
Fugitive feelings animating the whole
Waking a swell of wild desires,
Licking the heart with tongues of five,
Articulating structures of impersonal passions.
A poem is a funny thing,
If you feel into it, you are changed by it,
But if you don't, you are not,
A funny thing when you come to think.
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