In words we find but mirrors of the heart,
that, smudged with inky hands, absorb the light.
We wánt the words to show the way, but thwart
our selves, and others’, if we think that flight
into the soothing rhythms of a poem
can pacify our loneliness, assuage
(by trick of pressing metric verbal gems)
real living’s tender moments, or its rage.

Like Spanish bugles calling, poems can lift
the heart to try again when it is sore,
but poems alone can never heal a rift
or rival true awakening. What’s more,

a poem can’t be but fraction of the sum
of all we were, and are, and will become.