Never ask a poet for advice.
He’ll tell you to follow your heart,
and then say,
in the same breath,
that love mustn’t be forced.
And you’ll wonder,
does this person live this stuff,
or just write about it?
Can a poet
ever be more
than your watery reflection?
Can he tell you,
when there’s nobody else
to tell you,
what kind of sign it is
when you are twice
visited by the same sparrow?
When you are balanced
on a wire
between three seconds
in your lover’s arms,
and being anonymous
forever,
does he have a poem
for that?
Does he have a verse
for your pain,
a salve for your wound?
Can you believe him
when he says that you
are wrong in your sorrow,
and that you are, indeed,
meant for love?
When you kiss the dark night,
and break with your imagination,
can he show you how
to border the feelings
in the lines
of a poem
and bury them in place?
Or can he only take your words
and fashion them
into something
only remotely approaching
their original beauty?
Can he ever be more,
than what you wish to see?
Never
ask a poet for advice.
.