It's Not A Competition, It's A Doorway.

People Want Poetry. They Need Poetry. They Get It. They Don't Want Fancy Work.

And Now My Old Dog Is Dead, And Another I Had After Him, And My Parents Are Dead, And That First World, That Old House, Is Sold And Lost, And The Books I Gathered There Lost, Or Sold- But More Books Bought, And In Another Place, Board By Board And Stone By Stone, Like A House, A True Life Built, And All Because I Was Steadfast About One Or Two Things: Loving Foxes, And Poems, The Blank Piece Of Paper, And My Own Energy- And Mostly The Shimmering Shoulders Of The World That Shrug Carelessly Over The Fate Of Any Individual That They May, The Better, Keep The Niles And Amazons Flowing.

Wild Sings The Bird Of The Heart In The Forests Of Our Lives.

Maybe The World, Without Us, Is The Real Poem.

I Don't Want To End Up Simply Having Visited This World.