What if each poem was a masterpiece

Afer all I did sweat under the toil of creation

There was an intricate handiwork

Similar to a surgeon or a sculptor.

I guess after all, I lost 46 poems,

It was as though I didn’t care or is in the showing

of the leftovers that my puny pith will be,

seen as pain.

There was once a poem that went by the words,

‘I am going to bake me a cathedral.’


I want to let go –
so I don’t give a damn about fine writing,
I’m rolling my sleeves up.
The dough’s rising…
Oh what a shame
I can’t bake cathedrals…
that sublimity of style
I’ve always yearned for…
Child of our time –
haven’t you found the right shell for your soul?

Before I die I

bake a cathedral.