A Poem Without a Single Bird in It

by Jack Spicer

What can I say to you, darling,

When you ask me for help?

I do not even know the future

Or even what poetry

We are going to write.

Commit suicide. Go mad. Better people

Than either of us have tried it.

I loved you once but

I do not know the future.

I only know that I love strength in my friends

And greatness

And hate the way their bodies crack when they die

And are eaten by images.

The fun’s over. The picnic’s over.

Go mad. Commit suicide. There will be nothing left

After you die or go mad,

But the calmness of poetry.