One of a writer’s faults remains worship
of the bog-soggy ground on which he walks.
That ground is words and his holy idol
remains the dictionary on a shelf.
To the letter he wishes to be true,
yet a poet who wants to make things new
will forge fresh likenesses in the mirror
of words like a child making faces
that impishly, archaically appear
to resemble the facial expressions
of monkeys playing games with each other:
winking, grinning, mocking, and gesturing.
Unless the Monkey in the poet laughs,
Words will never become epigraph.