WEBVTT

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A little poem called
"The Secret of Poetry."

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When I wrote the poem, I
didn't realize the first two

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lines of it were funny until
I was explaining to someone

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the nature of my insomnia.

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And I said to them, well,
when I can't sleep, I think.

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And when I think, I can't sleep.

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These are set up in
somewhat the same way.

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When I was lonely,
I thought of death.

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When I thought of
death, I was lonely.

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I suppose this
era will continue.

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I shall enter each gray
morning delighted by frost,

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which is death, and the trees
that stand alone in mist.

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When I met my
wife, I was lonely.

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Our child, and her
body is lonely.

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I suppose this era
will go on and on.

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Mornings, I kiss my
wife's cold lips.

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Nights, her body
dripping with mist.

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This is the era that fascinates.

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I suppose you are secretly
lonely, thinking of death,

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thinking of love.

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I'd like please to
leave on your sill

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just one cold
flower, whose beauty

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would leave you
inconsolable all day.

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The secret of poetry is cruelty.

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