I'm not a poet in the sense
that I'm in the least shrewd;
the motives—the alibis—of others
I find obscure and crude.
I'm not a poet in the sense
that nature discloses her riddle to me;
the whispers—the whims—of the seasons
are as uncertain as eternity.
I'm not a poet in the sense
of the critics in our present day.
No, I'm much too unworldly.
My temperament is fey.
I'm not a poet in the sense
that I've lived a life of travel;
as soon as I get a thought going,
it just as soon unravels.
I'm not a poet in the sense
of a classical education.
The cognoscenti betray me.
Their words surpass my imagination.
So, where is my sense?
It must be immured in my heart.
For all that I feel then all that I write,
lies far, far apart.
