The new bed-sit

On the edge, but leaning back
on stiff straight arms [I think
I must look like some old slung-canvas
beach chair] wondering… in fact knowing
that what squeaky voice I have left
should not be wasted on doodling
about how sticky buds of sycamore
tickle the moon’s chin. Sweet thoughts, perhaps
but there are no innocent bystanders
and I fear apathy’s a worse sin than sin –

I would so like to be able to help now
Can poetry educate…?
it means to lead out
so very far from indoctrinate –
to teach not what to think
but how.




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