I am SO Wildly UnProlific,

Would reach from here to the Californian Coast if you laid

them .end to end.

And if you stacked them up,

the poems I have not written

would sway like a silentTower of Babel, saying nothing

and everything in a thousand

``

different tongues. So moving, So

Filled with and of suffering,

so steeped in the music of a voice

speechless before the truth,the poems I have not writtenwould break the hearts of everywoman who’s ever left me,

MAKE them eye their husbandswith a sharp themselves for turning their backson the very source of beauty.

contempt and hate

The poems I have not writtenwould compel all other poetsto ask of God:

I am worthless.”

Trees wouldbow their heads before the poemsI have not written. "Take me,"they would say, "and turn meinto your pages so that Imight live forever as the groundfrom which your words arise."The wind itself, about whichI might have written so eloquently

`

Praising and intersectingrivers of air, its stately calmsand furious interrogations,its flutelike lingerings and Passionate

to sweep down and then pass overthe poems I have not written,

and the life I have not lived,

`

the life