When the water holes go, and the fish flop about

In the mud, they can moisten each other faintly,

But it’s best if they lose themselves in the river.

You know how many Greek ships went down

With their cargoes of wine. If we can’t get

To port, perhaps it’s best to head for the bottom.

I’ve heard that the mourning dove never says

What she means. Those of us who make up poems

Have agreed not to say what the pain is.

For years Eliot wrote poems standing under

A bare light-bulb. He knew he was a murderer,

And he accepted his punishment at birth.

The sitar player is searching: now in the backyard,

Now in the old dishes left behind on the table,

Now for the suffering on the underside of a leaf.

Go ahead, throw your good name into the water.

All those who have ruined their lives for love

Are calling to us from a hundred sunken ships.