The Mead Of Poetry Is Rain In Stockholm

Around that Time
He began to see poetry
As his own sort of
Nuance. But he really meant
Nuisance, because his pen
Was so light on the paper now
And curse or color amount
To the impelling. He was---

Impelled,
Along the
Unfamiliar alleys of oddly-
Evening Stockholm,
Feeling that he was not especially Swedish
Impelled
To promise
Himself he would not
Write another poem

that night

the mountains were not what they had been.
Pine-frost reminded
Him of
Plagiarism

And around that
Time he took to photographing
Birds he thought were ravens. He should
Lose his eye for that
Wisdom. Stockholm grows
Ancient at night
Only at
Night

And he smoked
Year-old Newports from
America and he
Translated Rimbaud tho' it
Had been done before, when he
Slept it
Was only by an open window: he
Quoted the Edda to English tourists
And perfect strangers

Around that Time,
He drew maps of Stockholm
On his walls, and still feeling
Not particularly Swedish
Sold his newest
Book of poems

Drink heavy(one)eyed smoking in
Alleys blue curling the
Shame of talent and
Knowing.