Poetry is for wooing women.
Dead Poets Society
“Why did you do that?” A muse’s virtue
tries motive and possibility both,
finds doorways to the heart. Here’s soup; a loaf.
Do you see it yet? Or are you still
à côté des pompes? It wouldn’t hurt you
to finish this. Passive moods: a late chill
is kept off by the fire. I ask different
questions from yours. Love isn’t what you feel
for one who shows you loveable; no, it steals
past your gate, picks locks, pulls down your barri-
cades. “Poetry is for wooing women.”
Love breaks down the door. Fractured crystals carry
firelight to my hands. Chaleureux, I fuse
these moments into offerings to the muse.