This is not a serious poem,
It is not about
Blood, death, gore, or war.
(How the poet,
caught in his prison
drank himself dead.)
It is not about such
serious things, as
pain, dreams, drugs, or disease.
(How the painter,
cut off his ear
and sent it to a whore.)
No, this is a poem
about flowers, and trees, and love,
and all the happy things.
This piece originally appeared in Poetry 1969-1972, Writing Folio Number Two, published in 1972.