praising all but the final inescapability
I thought determinedly
no more shall I contribute words
to romance, birds, or loneliness
or the breath taking displays
of sky reaching mountains.
Contented, no sooner do I sit on my laurels
than the bombardment
of brand new revelations begins
wonderfully irritated by excitement
I write and write and write
about romance, and birds, and loneliness ecetera!
Oh! William Wordsworth! you and your daffodils!
what a great inspiration you are to me.
I'll settle down now in my minds literary warren
disregarding the exits
finding little surprises around every cranial corner
until I come across
the last irrefutable irrefusable one
horned, cloven footed
in that blacked-out cul-de-sac.