Poetry is the best excuse
Not to be serious about anything,
Not to be anything. When poetry asks,
It importunes nothing, it doesn’t care
If you come, or if you come and don’t dance.
When you arrive, and sit in the corner,
You find poetry watching you,
And you are thrilled to know
Poetry wants your secrets; if not now, later,
Or immediately, or you already did
Spill them, even as your lover, poetry, hid.
Is it possible that poetry who shames you
By loving you—as she blames you—
Hates you, with a wink—as you feel great—
Can hate you with such love?
Can love you with such hate?
Yes, my secret police of poetry,
You already know your lonely need to talk
Your mind has no authority.
Beautiful evening. Will you take a walk?