When the girl is in the room, I'll change the "she"s to "you"s and "her"s to "your"s.
This is: It’s important for every poet to die
You know what it was?
It was a primal snarl to God.
I have finite breath for God’s infinite listening.
You know what this is?
It is my regret like a chainsaw.
Taken to the soft between ribcage and pelvis.
You know what this will be?
It will be an upstairs room therapy.
As long as I fuel it with muse effigies of you.
A girl, I guess, wants her heart poured over
By hot murmurs of a poet who feels death.
Such is death’s thinness.
Wants her nerves candle wax bathed
By a poet’s proof of conditions all meaningless.
Such is life’s thinness.
Wants her hair intimately tousled
By poetry which won’t sicken alongside her aging,
Such is youth's thinness.
It strikes me right now,
In the dreary twilight point before sleep:
Where we laid in sweet evening figary, absorbed in each other
When she wrapped her cotton polyester mix legs around my leg
I realise right now she was Joan Baez.
But I thought Joan Baez sang Big Yellow Taxi.
It’s important for every poet to die.
No girl wants the snarling to thin.
