The History of a Poet

I told myself I was not special,

not to expect the privilege

of being more than just myself,

but I wanted a gift, a calling,

a way to organize what I knew best,

some work beyond the business

of prolonging my existence;

and my first siren was history,

its romance of antecedents,

the facts which brought us to now,

but that vocation came to nought.

Now years later I think am a poet,

but I have never lost my respect

for the evidence, and why would I?

As any poet would confess,

we begin with our witness,

and however we may bend it,

or how we arrange the testimony

to find the place where it all ends,

we must be true to the day itself,

start with the flower we saw,

the actual bird who sang at dawn,

or the person we love.