Buck

For Terence Corcoron

An old man
(certainly wiser than the poet)
asks the poet,
“Where’s your evidence?”

A hypothesis of partisans
rut round them,
hypothetically
ready to run.

The poet
keeps reading
(what it was he’d been reading)
and concedes he’s been wrong.

“The shape’s changed,
and what’s now X
can’t be made O
so let me just say
what I meant to say.”

The old man
(realizing the poet of poets
in his mind’s eye) notices
the poet grows very little.

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