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I read this morning
the "Best American Poets"
of 2003.
And, you know, at first you're skeptical,
thinking, "What makes them publishable?
What do they write that I can't?"
And as I passed the foreword
(simultaneously bypassing the introduction),
I found myself in a place where I was
Seussianly small in a space so big.
The poet's breath exhales
from the page, and you wish the world looked
just like that, to you.
But you sense your sight is smudged, like glasses
roiling in days-old dirt.
Like when you stand in a room with
a bunch of professors, towering like redwoods
over moss, and they're talking
the talk of knowledge, the knowledge of
everything, or you want to be everything-
that smallness, in a place of giants.
For all the schooling you try to receive,
and all the degrees you want to
post on your wall, you find
you're very, very small.
 Have Your Pi · Wed Mar 09, 2005 @ 06:13pm · 0 Comments |
