WEBVTT

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I've read several poems about--

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I've tried to
write several poems

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about my beloved high
school girlfriend.

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And I shall end with one
in her sacred memory.

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I believe that wherever
she is tonight--

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I sound like Garrison
Keillor when I did that.

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I believe that wherever she is
tonight, she's thinking of me.

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This is a set with two parts.

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The first part is called
"First Fraudulent Muse."

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Not 17, she dumped me.

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No one has to tell me a thing
about the sorrows, aches,

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indiscretions, and calamities of
young poets in the United States

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in the late 20th century.

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The poem I wrote then--

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the one that would
make her want me,

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either for my wry sensitivity
or the scholarly erudition

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of my heart--

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is not this one.

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It made some obscure reference
to the goddess Diana,

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while drizzling bad terza rima
about some poor decrepit wino

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eviscerating a garbage can.

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My good friend
looked at it and made

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me know what a damn
idiot I sure was.

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His maxims come back: read
everything, love language,

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revise, abide in the
Transforming Fire.

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And hers mutated by distance.

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While I was attaching the
syllables of a certain mulberry

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tree to an adjective
that I loved,

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she went and
married electrician.

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Still I had to make
a living, mindful

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of the preserving potential of
the art and language clattering

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onto the platen, like the small
dark horse of the embalmer salt.

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Always it is the same night.

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I called her Lily of the Valley
and named her in many songs.

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She keeps turning her
cold beautiful shoulder

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into someone else's words.

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