can I really be the poet

{originally written in November 1981; only editing was to fix up the spelling so you could understand what I was trying to say} 


can I really be the poet

thin, hollow-eyed

blown in waif coat

from heart to pocket


can I find refuge

in ink, dark garrets

under eaves of pretension and fear


can I reach for a lover

at midnight bell’s tolling

more substantial than

vapour breaths & wine


can I put pain in my knapsack

and carry it’s ashes

from sea to mountain and sky


am I a Cohen,

a Dylan

a woman

or just the

prophet of my doom & despair


can you give me


the answers to questions

that beat on my window at dawn


I like first person narratives.

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