Poems are secrets, that we speak aloud
and are not understood. Only in part
do readers hearers get to know our heart.
Our muses may be present in the crowd
and think a poem does not speak their name
or that it does, and either might be wrong,
or be half-right. Each poem is a song
whose notes are true, whose morals one might blame
but which cannot be held in evidence.
I never lie in verse. Lying in bed
I can't remember half the things I've said
I meant them all, but in some special sense.
I loved you all – my sonnets in the night
console me that we lost moments' delight.