And so I had a glaring revelation,
I couldn’t find the poet in the man although
I read his life composed by writers true disposed
To tell it with veracity. They built a monument in words
And deeds, a shrine of writers’ reeds inlaid with refined
And proper quotes. Those motes were hardly real; I couldn’t find
The poet in the man they wrote, but when I found alone the
Man within the Poet reading from his poetry I was replete.
Perhaps they can’t compete these dry and dusty counters
Of the grains of sand, there’s more evoked within a ball of
Dimpled clay on any day a sculptor lends his hands to shape
A face; I am pleased to read the poet rather than the man
And will not place my future faith in such abstruse scatology.