Ode to Emily Dickinson
I too run sick of silences, still language,
Given: a poem is always confession,
concession. (I am more
Entered, the world is a jail (isnt it?)
Arrest of the heroic: to sap that hue
You strove to tell them
then hid and threw them fewer, your meteors,
(Ah, your glint I envy most...)
The wisdom is simple, but varied.
_ The poem is an anagram of Emily Dickinsons poems # 241, 441, and 475.