What poet tells of a life lived in?
For who could live inside a poem?
It is not a land it is not a dream
It does not happen it is its own is
It is an is that never wakes
Yet never sleeps (there is no night
In which to sleep or day in which
To walk about in). A life lived in,
All melancholy might and main
That meets its moments in their lair
There nothing is for very long. It dies.
The poem pries open its stillborn eyes.