THE MASTER

 

He looks down and never notices

My transient being

And permanent cry lines

Eyes that are as deaf as a blind man’s hand

Staying in the neutral zone

That leads to a little forestry

Of barks that are lined with incessant imaginings

Never kosher enough

To the true poets’ mind

Bring me a glass of verse when I am bone dry

Eminent master of words whose project

Was a life lived in style

The rhyming teat

Was your charge

For the love of bodies

And the valleys

Along milky rooftops with Welsh windows

Creeping like a leopard with rainy spots of ink

Industrious and scholarly

I worship thee from below

And no mistake burning in vain

Prose flowing from a dull hand

Cannot verse like mastery!