No one can write poetry. Poetry is born in their time,
as children. Undressed and easy.
Lungs as an autumn dream as a memory of love, as the silence of lilac
Teach them to take the first steps.
In the clothing of the letters pass stage
a free row, the iambic row.
Teach them to notice more than you could see yourself
Teach them to believe in the forgotten wonders
which obey eccentric heartbeat in the calm of affected by cold flats
And every time you dismiss your poems to the world
support them from the slender hand