You know enough five-point calvinist guys,
And woo woo women into the universe,
To know too well the comfort fate provides,
And the sucking wound of free verse.

Baker’s sugar sweet onto that wound,
To know there was no other way.
Each eager branch deftly pruned,
By strong enough hand yesterday.

Does it make the bough fall softer
And does it make it go to mulch
Any faster and bring to prosper
Whatever fungus lays in this gulch?

Etch your past in marble, as much as you can fit in.
And what you have written, you have written.