Marathoners are running the race
And each ends last anyways
Like they would have if they
Ran against time without complain
Poetry is no minute thing
A clock ticks with options at hand
Write poems or knead dough for a bun
Write anyways
For this is sad fun

Poetry is lost in the sands
No competing for the sea or the shore
They are sea-shells drowned upside down
Found under sunlight by the way
Write poems like those, drink wine
Losing a race is fine when deadened

Just let my poems be burned
Roasted metal undone

Compete with none in the marathon
Never stop your cold trustful self
Keep the jug at the edge of the table carefully
And see it broken before dawn
A slip of hand or tongue

Just let my poems be burned
Roasted metal undone

Let me judge your poems one by one
As if it belongs to
A none