Novels aren’t my proper format;
I just can’t write on command.
Instead I keep writing poems
For which there is no demand.
Still, regardless of who reads them,
I continue fixing time
In amber stones of sometimes meter,
Sometimes, even, using rhyme.
All my efforts may well die with
Me; I really cannot tell.
Immortality is not the point-
A very good thing! These don’t sell.
So with all this self-exposure
I keep placing here on view,
Words that make time crystallize, I
Offer all my times to you.