Write

I can taste the certain sadness
 of Thomas' "Fern Hill,"
as the apple boughs groan and crack
   & the fruit begins to wilt.

The prowess of Rimbaud, l'enfant terrible,
  induces a blinding pang;
For I too am poisoned
  by the Gaelic blood, the dreaded mauvais sang.


I am riddled with despair
  each time I revisit Baudelaire,
And yet I find strange solace there,
  where darkness laid bare.

In every poem,
  a tiny truth is spun;
For every poet,
  a dance with death is done.

Better now to stain the page with thought
          & smudge the air with song
                 & down the too-full, too-strong drinks
                     that I'm supposed to sip on.