WHAT WOULD WE DO IF THE POEMS RAN OUT
What would we do if the poems ran out
our energy supplies cut off?
How would we explain that away
without the words and what they convey?
Like the blind we'd have to evolve
with only the touchrod of insight to solve
those infinite days and their challenging ways
to stumble over imponderable matters
and stare at statues
or bleakly at sunsets
devoid of the muse and the songs of praise?