There Is The View That Poetry Should

How Funny Your Name Would Be If You Could Follow It Back To Where The First Person Thought Of Saying It, Naming Himself That, Or Maybe Some Other Persons Thought Of It And Named That Person. It Would Be Like Following A River To Its Source, Which Would Be Impossible. Rivers Have No Source.

It Never Seems To Occur To Anyone That Each Reader Is Different, And That Even Those Who Might Be Said To Resemble Each Other Will Each Bring An Individual Set Of Experiences And References To Their Reading, And Interpret And Misinterpret It According To These.

So I Cradle This Average Violin That Knows Only Forgotten Showtunes, But Argues The Possibility Of Free Declamation Anchored To A Dull Refrain.

Death Is A New Office Building Filled With Modern Furniture, A Wise Thing, But Which Has No Purpose For Us.

Each Servant Stamps The Reader With A Look.