After Listening to Creeley Read

When I listen to

poets read, I hear

words severed from

the alternate universe

of white paper and think —

Oh God, who are

these beggars, what

is this road between

a voice and a pen —

how have they managed

to articulate so much

of the lives

of the social elementals,

yet sound so scared,

as though they’re caught

halfway, trapped in a door

that can’t decide

if it’s opening or closing,

a universe of unresolved

lunches with gin, loves

forever cast adrift — carrion

for vultures to savage —

these poor polemics for

the cause of angst

and redemption, Charon

and salvation, manicured lawns

for the moon and nights

in day when the only light

comes from that moody fire,

burning at the speed of doubt.