And the poems I wrote, so; young, so young,
not even knowing I was a poet,
poems that ripped offlike a fountain splashing,
like sparks from a rocket,

Poems that ripped, like devils, tiny devils,
right inside, to where dreams and incense lie,
oh my poems about being young and about death
—my unread poems!—

Sprinkled in dusty closet-shops
(where no one went, and where no one finds them, now!)...
my poems, like rare, expensive wine,
will have their turn.