he says

and i think

exactly right

there is nothing much in this thing

poets live for

the flash of blue

across a dark sky

snow in spring

the storming line

useless, really

for life

now

today

but still

we write

and sometimes

through the fog of utlility

there is a girl

in a dress

thinking

or a tear running

furious

down the page

most of our lines

are not for now

they are for later

when the skies open

for when the reality

of what we have done

becomes apparent

poems are for death

for birth

for love

they are with us then

and it is hard

to ask for a better defence