To get to where we're going we must
first cross the bones of our failures,
to hear them crunching beneath our boots;

where each one is an ossuary
of the abandoned, charnel house
of mistakes on this arduous trek

as we attempt the challenging path
through this poet's life we've chosen,
hopefully to learn of its secrets.

And we mustn't walk there on tiptoes,
either, but stamp and grind to dust
those bones, or we just betray ourselves,

for only through direct, forensic
contact like this is seen the truth,
that the perfect poem can't exist;

that the next best thing is just to try:
point the pen in one direction
and learn not to repeat past mistakes.

MP 12-186/3724