So you’ve written poetry, <br />And have beautiful scars, like <br />Burns in the pie-crust of American: <br />And I’ll write your introduction, <br />Even though we’ve sold all the trees <br />And I don’t know you. <br />I’ve seen one picture of you, <br />But I will not stare when you come awake <br />Again under my tents, swooning like <br />The damp laundry, or the birds <br />Picked from the dunes by the sky; <br />And I would lay my arms down beneath <br /> You, to be christened or knighted, <br />Though you might not think to speak of this <br />Until the depressions of the next millennia; <br />And though I should be the dirtiest man <br />In the bookstore, I will smile even as I buy <br />Those things they forgot and have fallen into <br />The vague quarries of such professions: <br />Though I cannot see it anymore, I am <br />Published in mutations of sky, and I love you.<br /><br />Robert Rorabeck<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/anne-sexton/