Poem by Ulrich Wendt

Clear-cutting

Love is not a subject fit for poetry.
It comes out lies, somebody said, lies
but what with my blood roaring around,
how could I agree at twenty?
Now,
lunch comes when I am in the middle
of my opinion of the government
and I think I will have warm soup or something
nice
at the homemade young Chinese couple’s
and the fellow who works at the department of trees
sits down and that’s all right and love
is not a subject fit for poetry
and I am hardly listening what
with the homemade young Chinese couple’s
apple-pie and my opinion of the government
and it is three thousand acres cut clear
and the wind is blowing the thin soil away
and the pine-needles and all
and love is not a subject fit for poetry
as bit by bit hard stone comes bare.