it would be hard to love a librarian-
all that order,and the dust of books
Borges was blind,in Austin
beloved for his being,and his writing
Frost a grump,Ginsberg for Apollo
w c for illicit doctor's visits
poor Eliot with a mad wife
Pound editing him in to shape
little Larkin,so honest in letters
the bird of his lines apologetic
Brutal truth and honesty we demand
even when Dylan Thomas cheated everyone
The lines we follow are not the person
maybe an autograph /to ask them
the HOW and WHY of such a curious profession
with no income,always secondary lovers
and intimacy like Plath and Hughes
a movie to be made posthumously
no royalties,unless reading like Bukowski
trading stages for pages like Bly
treading smiles and adoring housewives
Reuben,Reuben blah,blah,blah
Unless some serious scandal accompanies
we leave those books upon the shelf
translate distance from another time
no sweat,nor sex with Rumi nor with Ovid
lovers long anonymous.Books remaindered
Only letters and epistles revealing warts and teardrops
abortions,venereal disease,insecurities
This is why memoirs are marketable more than poems
gossip fuels the Buddhist fires.Up close and personal revelations
allows the comforting sight of defects-a comfortable distance
Posthumous recycled audience
(Background)
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