I have no fears that I may cease to be
Because my pen has gleaned my teeming brain,
Producing high-piled books – how many a tree
Has gone to make this pile? It’s been a drain
On Nature. Did I join the human race
Willingly? I was not asked to dance,
To join this moiling throng whose flailings trace
Their fleeting shadows on the face of chance.
When I was young, fair creature of an hour,
I thought my sands would not too likely pour
Through my glass longer than they did through your
Narrow throat. But time will soon devour
My work as well – it causes me no grief.
Far from it; it will be a great relief.
Lewis Turco
Copyrght © 2012 by Measure: A Review of Formal Poetry; all rights reserved by the author.
