1.

This poem is why

I lie down at night

to sleep; it is why

I defecate, read,

and eat sandwiches;

it is why I get

up in the morning;

it is why I breathe.

 

 

2.

You think (and I know

because you told me)

that poems exist

to say things, as you

telephone and I

write letters—as if

this poem practiced

communication.

 

 

3.

One time this poem

compared itself to

new machinery,

and another time

to a Holstein’s cud.

Eight times five times eight

counts three-hundred-and-

twenty syllables.

 

 

4.

When you require it,

this poem consoles—

the way a mountain

comforts by staying

as it was despite

earthquakes, presidents,

divorces, and frosts.

Granite continues.

 

 

5.

This poem informs

the hurt ear wary

of noises; and sings

to the weeping eye.

When the agony

abates itself, one

may appreciate

arbitrary art.

 

 

6.

This poem is here.

Could it be some place

else?  Every question

is the wrong question.

The only answer

saunters down the page

in its broken lines

strutting and primping.

 

 

7.

It styles itself not

for the small mirror

of its own regard—

nor even for yours:

to fix appearance;

to model numbers;

to name charity

“the greatest of these.”

 

 

8.

All night this poem

knocks at the closed door

of sleep: “Let me in.”

Suppose all poems

contain this poem,

dreaming one knowledge

shaped by the measure

of the body’s word.