Craft's not something I'd ascribe
To Whitman. He was a cannon
Untethered, spraying rounds in
Every direction. Accurate, maybe,
Aimed mostly by passion. He'll
Pierce you with his ecstasy...

As he did me. I had to retreat
To Sidney's sturdy hospital, where
Every surface shone and all was
Ordered, crafted brilliantly. In
Minutes, I was wholly healed.

I'd planned, once I had been released,
To venture on toward Paradise, to
Savor Blind John's handiwork. No
Finer craftsman ever lived, but even
Poets tire of verse at last. I went
To sleep.