to write poems
     now,
amid the smoke
     of wildfires
          and fomented spite—
     the remnant fumes of incense burned
          in praise to false gods;

to write poems
     now,
while still in earshot
     of the whiplash crack
          of gunfire,
watching, fearbound,
     the growing crack
          in the edifice of our state,
     the artifice of democracy,
          the imitation of an imitation
               of a united nation.

to write poems
     now,
in the selfishness
     of heartbreak—
          a distraction,
               or a cope,
          there are ruins within
               and ruins without;

to write poems
     now,
crouched in the corner
     of one’s own mind—
          havened from a world
               hostile to poets,
          where, briefly,
               order can be found
                    in line
                    and meter
                    and form
                    and design,
where we assure ourselves—
     yes,
     it is good,
          and proper,
               and necessary

to write poems
      now.