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.