When I finish this poem my life will be simple again
And I will be free to return to more profitable pursuits
But the poem does not ask
Whether it will somehow benefit me
To complete a task not of my choosing
The poem only demands to be finished
How will I know that I have finished the poem
A question not to be asked
How will I finish the poem
A question to be asked
But the poem does not answer
It only demands
And how will I know if it’s even a poem
And what if I should err
And mention Mona Lisa and wattle and daub
Or fail to employ the possessive with the gerund
What the hammer what the chain
No answer
And yet I have encountered poems
That assert a subject-like character
That look back often with a gaze indeterminate
And speak often in sentences unintelligible
The world is filled with such gazers and speakers
And sometimes they turn out to be poems
The poem expresses no sympathy
For any somewhat sad perplexity
The poem only demands
When reconstructing the choreography
Of The Rite of Spring
Do not ask how to get from here to there
Just go from here to there
The poem does not ask whether I am capable
And in this I gain a glimpse of freedom