Distant Hits
The writing of vague truths in sonnets to
Those readers you will never know takes on
An almost holy redolence. You brew
Up draughts of hormones and of nights long gone,
And other steams of psychedelic drugs,
And somewhere far away, far, far away
In time or space a man or woman hugs
Them into nostrils, hoping that this spray
Will take away their boredom or their pain
And you will never know if they obtained
The little thrills that poetry’s cocaine
Produced from heated powder and so stained
Their septum with delights that they then fell
To bliss, or if they got a whiff of hell.