If I Were a Poet

Right there, in the theater,
while watching Macbeth, act 5, scene 5,
when Birnam Wood starts to move,
you suddenly realize
that nothing you’ve written
will be said on a stage 400 years from now.

In fact, next year probably no one
will remember your self-published
works, volume 1,
which at the latest count has sold 55 copies,
mostly to family and friends.

But maybe your words,
together with the words of William,
Geoffrey, Percy, D.H., T.S., e e,
Emily, Edna, Sylvia, and Maya,
are all just one work,
so epic it cannot be seen
except from heaven looking back.
Maybe we, with everyone who has ever lived
and ever will,
are writing a book called
“What We Said.”

Your part is small,
but it is a necessary part,
and you must be the one to write it.
Someday, 400 years from now,
you’ll open the book,
and right there, between Donne and Ginsberg,
your words will be there,
forever.