Life is a heap of rejection slips for the poems you wrote.
Brunt reality's unwieldy retort strangely does not revoke
the life of your poems; does not kill, but which wants you
to receive life first receiving its hardness, which is you;
that is to say: one's hardness must be broken, which we find hard.
Where one seems soft often is where one is hard - a sneer that hasn't happened yet.
Unwieldy reality asks for the significances
of them (the poems) on freedom's hard pat ground, without due acceptance,
but with the odd exceptions of acceptances
for the ones you tossed off in a spell of lightness.
To wield them and write them with light
that is not from you, with light and for Light
through a glass darkly; find and find again
lightness is a hard thing that is not frivolity.
Reality's splendorous and modest that suavely
opens for one a path, first requires rejection's air to breathe.