No Poet

. . . To it all lines or lesser gauds belong.



There is no one great poet
anymore, none
of stature above all
the rest -- wasn't it always an illusion
anyhow, that such a figure
ever existed? Only
this new consciousness
remains, of how we write
linked in communitas, the one poem
while the eerie sound
of Whitman's great wheel grinds
in the background.

---

- epigraph from Juan at the Winter Solstice, by Robert Graves.