It’s been decades now since I left the university:
Bright and hallowed halls
duller now in mind, and weepy;
eyelids fading on a glory frieze.
I still can see
the arcs above the thinking paths
of greater ones than me:
the might-bes and the would-becomes
in stars and gods and
shining things inevitable.
No, now, no longer now, no more
do they point to possibility:
To the talismans of better angels,
and making majesty.
No, no. Men dyspeptic
fueled me once, and all their poetry
rejoicing rain and breeze and beer
was pure intoxication to this empty soul.
—but no, no, the glory never filled, and I
no glory gave and that is history as writ,
one poet to another, beyond the