Some of the older poems make less sense
Than the ones I'm fussing about here and now,
And no matter how I try to clarify
Each of them, I am at a muddled loss.
Let's barge right through another one just like
A fumbling drunk goes through an unlit room
And stubs a toe on the darkened and low
Mahogany inherited coffee table.
Illumined by the nonsense of them all;
Only the Frost poems make any sense,
Or the ones I read in different translations.
Something is lost in all the subterfuge
Of style that classifies a modernism--
I don't know what it is, may never know.
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