the rock

I will not name this poet although his blood red and dark
words indented themselves all through me and still
in mid-life and later on he became and remained a complete
he spoke to no one and was seen by very few.
his work and his life appeared to be as one.

it was not until after his death that I read his book of
Collected Letters and these
pandered to university powers and publishing
there was letter after letter of
beckoning and
posturing, of
obeisance and

it hardly seemed the same man.
maybe it wasn’t, I thought, maybe somebody   wrote those
letters for him
and then
they were published.

in reality, though, I knew that he had written

how often our idols fall
until soon
there are none

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