The famous critic had already
Been accused of Nazi collaboration
By the time I encountered his observation
That she dies in the blank space
Between the two stanzas
And I castigated myself
For impercipience
Of that which was so obvious

It pisses me off when somebody says
You never know
I want to scream
Isn’t it pretty to think so
And sure
You can’t compare finite knowledge
To the infinitude of ignorance

But some things you know
That you can only wish you had never known
As for example
The horrors inscribed
Behind the closed eyes of memory
And here are my poems for anybody to see
And unsurprisingly
Nobody sees them

I know that I don’t know what makes a poem a poem
Much less how to make one happen
And the thought occurs
That others might possess that knowledge
Thus making these pages an object of derision
When I know full well they’re not worth the trouble
And so I write not out of conviction or even of desire
But merely under compulsion