UNCONFESSIONAL

This is the poem in which I am not myself; the one
where I look to my core and find an absence. In this poem
there is no guilt for sleeping too late
or getting up too early. In this poem
I do not see the stars.
Only the constellations

In this one, you are neither concerned
nor unconcerned. You are not required
to see the skies, nor to evaluate them. It is not incumbent on you
to understand or accept
my evaluation of twentyfirst century Western civilization.
('cause, see, it's not here either.)
In this poem, my hands are not shaking
(any more than yours),
my nightmare is not waking, my soul is not aching, the earth is not quaking
my heart is not breaking, my ham is not baking
the for is not saking, the lines are not breaking,
and I am not obligated to force a rhyme.