Robert Lowell died of a heart attack,
Last night, in a taxi, at sixty—
Social Security beat him:
“Pulitzer Prize winner”
“Most talented of Contemporary Poets”
But, who remembers
-The bastard poet who hunted and found his father?
-The wild-bearded poet whose father cussed him on TV?
Is flash in the pan better than shouting,
“See me. SEE ME.”
Answered in raised-lettered cards,
Printed on optical centers,
In my self-addressed envelopes:
“No, thank you”?
Still, some spiritual Sucret
Relieves the harshness of anonymity,
Forcing me to record as an ant stores,
Compulsively, an act of sanity.
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