Heather McHugh • Ill-Made Almighty

No man has more assurance than a bad poet. —Martial

The logos thrives, it is crawling
with bugs. The lecturers, below,

are memorific, futurized, dead-certain
they’ll go unsurprised. They don’t

know nows as you do, true to no
clear destination. (You can’t even act

your age, it’s over-understudied.) Steady
as you go. The greatest waves are barely

bearable, alive’s ill-read already,
and the Skipper is sick

of the terribly lit
graffiti in the head.