Praise for a Nonessential
*To Sylvia Plath
Unforced erection of a cenotaph
became her solitary compulsion
and, as she oozed into self-revulsion,
knew it would be not her child, but her craft.
Thoughts blotched in as the coat of a giraffe
patterned with words for ample propulsion
and she, bent in ecstatic convulsion,
grasped that poetry is no polygraph.
She understood the point of poems
is not to outfit food or homes
or to put down in phrases terse
some meaning for the universe.
So, then, why write a poem at all?
To latch like Percy, stitched and small.