When poetry calls,
I look over my shoulder,
half afraid of what I might find.
For I am not good enough,
not worthy of the great ones,
and besides, no one likes poetry anymore anyway.
But there is a fierce flame that burns,
a torrent that sweeps all away,
a light that insists on touching the world.
So I write.
I write in a struggle to reveal the eternal and the numinous
hidden in the riddle of the Janus-faced moment.
And always, I know in the end, I will fail.
For the task is too great,
and the mind not properly constituted.
But I write anyway,
and sometimes, just sometimes,
I fail in exactly the right way.
