Naked Poet, Laid Bare

He thought it might behoove him to write naked,
scruffy and unwashed – and meet the dawn
as metaphor as well as actuality: with nothing on.
Pour out his collective intellectuality to shake it

into an insouciance – a who-cares little spin with
his most ragged sin and certainty and doubt.
However, when he’d got the whole thing out
he found he’d never really had it to begin with.

And so he set upon a very different track.
Meticulously he re-gilded all the poem’s parts
into the glittering components of high farce:
fussy as a Fabergé. He got his mojo back.

Art was not the bare thing he'd supposed.
It often looked a whole lot better clothed.






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