Poems like that go on so far
as they will, not a line or a sentiment
more. When they wrap up neat,
you can't force them on
toward the point that was yours,
just a few lines beyond.
Not for all of your promise
of neat little image to come,
or powerful theme to explore,
or bells or a bow to put on.
Such a poem won't care.
Having come to a perfect close, there is nothing
beyond you can offer it. There:
It has reached its end.
Let it rest. Be at peace.
If you try to force things,
pile stanzas on, or wedge
lines between - it grows
spiteful and bent, and bloated
and tears its clothes and hair.
You cannot recapture that perfect
lull - completeness, and meaning
arising in you to loft up, waft over
and settle in full - by stalking on
wolfishly after a point you already bulled
past, blinded by tears and wool.
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