There are poets
In comfortable houses
Clean beds
Who write of gra** and trees and
Flowers
They sing melodies that concord
On tuneful ears
Sing babies to sleep
And say
All the world is well.
‘Twould be nice to be
Such a poet
To not know and not care
Not really
Not seeing, not dreaming
Not alive, not dead
Just falling
Like a green leaf on a
Summer's day.