“Works with obvious meanings
cease to be art”
he said, yet we must not be obscure

for obscurity’s sake
the meaning should be clear, flowing
just beneath the surface

Like a heart beneath the floor

He disliked
pretenders, creating
deceitful characters to suffer ignoble deaths
He died wearing another man’s clothes
and yelling “Reynolds!”

The first to live by his pen alone
he suffered, as we do
losing his only love to a burst blood vessel in her throat

He was seeking
something, the meaning
beneath, within, above
but he hated
transcendentalists, and wrote
only in careful, measured
beats

“Lord help my poor soul”
he whispered when he finally saw the darkness
beyond the door