88 to Infinity
I admired her from a distance. California to Poland. Polish poets we two. She made ideas simple. I was complicated by words. A weaver of irony was she. I simply seek it out. She loved her cigarettes until the her flame was extinguished by lung cancer. 88 now free.
thus not all. Not even the majority of all but the minority.
Not counting schools, where one has to,
and the poets themselves,
there might be two people per thousand.
but one also likes chicken soup with noodles,
one likes compliments and the color blue,
one likes an old scarf,
one likes having the upper hand,
one likes stroking a dog.
but what is poetry.
Many shaky answers
have been given to this question.
But I don’t know and don’t know and hold on to it
like to a sustaining railing.