Though walk in beauty I may never
Nor beauty limn like Peter Gizzi,
Whose vowels soft and echoes clever
Smooth the strange to make it pretty;
Nor like Swenson make a lever
Of charming gardens and a local library
To move the literary world (Albion's
Angels may never call, nor the Iowans,
To make me timeless), I court frustration
By failing faith in the new new lyric:
Direct address in soft disjunction,
Routine craft of the cracked syntactic,
All the comforting beautifications
All the comforting beautifications
Avant rebels' debtors' I's make.
And though I never be printed in Fence,
I can’t make myself make such sense.
