What Is Poetry

The medieval town, with friezeOf boy scouts from Nagoya? The snowThat came when we wanted it to snow?Beautiful images? Trying to avoidIdeas, as in this poem? But weGo back to them as to a wife, leavingThe mistress we desire? Now theyWill have to believe itAs we believed it. In schoolAll the thought got combed out:What was left was like a field.Shut your eyes, and you can feel it for miles around.Now open them on a thin vertical path.It might give us—what?—some flowers soon?