Photo by Kerensa Pickett on Unsplash

I must confess (though to do so is to slash
At my own grapevines), we poets often do
Great harm to ourselves — for instance, when you’re weary
And distracted and we bother you with our poems;
Or when our feelings are hurt because a friend
Is brave enough to criticize so much
As a single line; when, uninvited to do so,
We recite all over again a poem or passage,
One of our own, that we’d just got through reciting;
When we lament the fact