Poetry is innocent, not wise. It does not learn from experience, because each poetic experience is unique.

But with exquisite breathing you smile, with satisfaction of love, And I touch you again as you tick in the silence and settle in sleep.

The doctor punched my vein, the captain called me Cain, upon my belly sat the sow of fear.

In the tight belly of the dead, Burrow with hungry head, And inlay maggots like a jewel.

The good poet sticks to his real loves, those within the realm of possibility. He never tries to hold hands with God or the human race.

Already old, the question Who shall die? Becomes unspoken Who is innocent?