To A Poet Even Worse, And More Self-Righteous, Than Ezra Pound

Death is not my final destiny:
the Gospel's truth is not just some wishful whim.
But death's grim efficence frees
my soul from all this carcass's infirmities,
including my intense dislikse . . . of him.

Not a high modernist, but a low;

and not one that I personally know;

whose name I have been loathe to say
since that seemngly adolescent day

when I consigned to that metaphoric heap---
that I have built of literary wastes---
all of his poems, opinions, and unscholarly tastes.

From those, I have insulated my poetry:
and that has not cost me a moment's sleep.

 

Starward

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