| seems like a good way to say I spent all last week feeling helpless and talking about it in terms of not being Why can’t compassion change our lives even half so completely as a suicide bomber, or half so immediately as a natural disaster Big ideas get me nowhere, so the fact that breaking spring feels better than cracking up is at least a start toward a walk through Washington Park, its trees in pink blossom, its white-yellow-purple Tomorrow I will talk about Frankenstein in bed and then I will talk about it with people who are sleeping I will say that it’s a book about artistic responsibility I will say it’s alive It’s alive And some number of eyes will stare back at me without believing any of it matters, or without believing it matters for them And what can I say to convince them I have only my love to recommend it beyond what it already is My suspect credibility upon the rockets of birds, the soft parts of people, the oceans’ inevitable, cyclical weeping Who has time for poetry has more time than they deserve Copyright © 2016 Matt Hart. Used with permission of the author. |
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