A short defence of poetry (after Auden).
The private individual knows
when death arrives and knocks
then coughs, that in our grief’s
extremity we need a little more
than prose. The poets hammer in
their dens their shields against the day
we die: bequeath in the curl of ink
from pens the will to look at death’s
cold eye. When they are gone and you
are gone as go and go will everyone
we need to know that someone here
could tune perfection’s imperfect ear.