Then She Let the Fish Go

Folks need folks, like it or not—
The hour is rare in most lives

That can be lived with no talk,
And no notes (these have to stop

And they will, but who will know?
No one, once lines start to slow),

And no way a soul can catch
A whiff of talk to be caught.

The green spot dreamed of in books,
The one some god gave to us

And that we spoiled with our talk
And our need for more like us

And then more talk—that was gone
When books, when marks weren’t dreamed of.

So, rest well in a green hour
When a green hour’s there to get,

And if it lasts a few hours,
Put the poems down and play dead.

If you don’t, you will be found
With this line still in your mouth.