Like thousands, I took just pride and more than just,
struck matches that brought my blood to a boil;
I memorized the tricks to set the river on fire-
somehow never wrote something to go back to.
Can I suppose I am finished with wax flowers
and have earned my grass on the minor slopes of Parnassus….
No honeycomb is built without a bee adding circle to circle, cell to cell,
the wax and honey of a mausoleum
this round dome proves its maker is alive;
the corpse of the insect lives embalmed in honey,
prays that its perishable work live long enough
for the sweet-tooth bear to desecrate
this open book . . . my open coffin.
Lowell, R., Bidart, F., & Gewanter, (2003). Collected poems (1st ed.). New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, p.