Poets commenting on the work
of other poets inevitably seem to end
up talking about themselves.
And in the end, it never seems to mean more
than "why isn't this about me?"
or "why is this about me?" or
"Why can't I be more like you?"
All of this leads little old me
to think that maybe we
are just confusing ourselves
with some species capable
of seeing past its own
defenses, and into the heart
of something besides
itself. But maybe even this is delusion,
a residual conviction that even
in this self-absorption we see
something indemic to humanity,
when it is only that we,
poets that is, are still sad children
screaming for attention
from the most inattentive of parents,
our societies, our gods,
and ourselves.

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