They Mean Less

The poems go on and on They repeat themselves They lose their rhythm They mean less The poems go on and on Because it is hard to live without the poems But perhaps they have been done What could be done by me perhaps Has been done forever And perhaps it is better For the poems to say good- bye to themselves And for me to go on as a person Whose name and life Need no present connection with poetry And are just there Like a stone or a tree Or an old man sitting in a wheelchair in an old age home Waiting all day for the next meal He can never really fully enjoy