Collected Poems of John Holmes
Holmes, John A., Jr.
I am poor thing -
Made of glass, you might say -
Many-colored glass - red, green, blue
And black, rich yellow, bronze and brown,
And white, all flecked with drab
And gold - Oh, every hue
That you could think off,
Curiously streaked and mixed.
And when the light shines through -
You've seen the windows in a church?
You know the sudden glory, then
Still it depends just where
The light strikes - do you understand?
More like, you don't.
Perhaps I should have only said
That I'm a poet.