Thrust Home

I strive to smelt my feelings in a crucible of art,
I plunge them into tears until the hissing starts;
And after they are cooling, then I hammer them with zeal:
A rapier forged of supple, double-edged poetic steel.

I lunge it at my enemies imagined& usually,
Or raise it in salute to valiant friends, so loyally,
Or turn the weapon on myself, then finally
To stab my pretenses, skewered with Why me?
12-04-83