Human Things

 

A poem is only a human thing,

However cosmic it may sometimes seem.

It’s placing words in a certain order

And hoping other people think it right.

 

Some of us paint on the walls of caves

Or scratch our names on a bathroom wall;

We marshal black notes along stately staves

For a drinking song or a mating call;

 

And some of us make things out of words

In a hopeful frenzy, like bower-birds.