The Passion enters the room again and I stare.
I stare because I meant to ask a question the last time, and I,
I forgot to ask.
So I look at the Passion, I try to get the attention of the Passion,
and then I ask:
—What do you think about this? (I point at my paper.)
The Passion looks at the paper,
and replies:
—I think that’s trash.
I sigh,
because I know,
I know the Passion’s right.
I wrote it and,
it was with my head,
and not my heart; what I wrote,
never had I felt
in my body, never
suffered seriously, desperately from, or with,
to me it was an idea, no more,
nothing more than what’s easy,
and everywhere; not poetry,
not necessary, not me;
but a trick, a show, a look-at-me;
and I, I sighed,
embarrassed, heavy,
and I said:
—Well, what do you know?
The Passion blinked,
and then replied:
—I know what’s yours.
To this,
no reply,
and the Passion went out,
the Passion,
the Passion,
the Passion went out.
Gray Haskins 