When he sat down to his desk
in the morning
there was a voice
weeping
from the personal
which could not bear its frailty
and longed for alleviation
in some lovely figure or perception.

Sometimes it spoke
as if it knew it was going to be published:
" I will never sacrifice man for art. "

It needed no one
and was neither modest nor superior,
just sure and straight.
When he heard it, he knew he had a good thing
and wrote it down,
at first plain
and then as high character,
as if he were discovering his nature.

But the committment had already been made
to honesty and clarity.
Why then did he have to go through
all that strangeness?