For Rachel Gruskin

The welcome poet wrote that nobody knows what they’re talking about
And accounting for a little hyperbole this statement is true
He later counseled to remain in light
But it wasn’t he was it in either case

What is this troubled relation of truth and poetry
Is it a long marriage that settles into lowgrade tension
Is it a brotherhood of a guitar and a keyboard
Is it a ceaseless battle of vicious antagonists

Or is it a fish and a bicycle no relation at all
For poetry comes from spontaneous neurological eruption
An ecstatic preacher mad with eternity
But truth is a chip of glass on the floor under the bottle opener