The art of forgetting.

Never forget those, furnace blown
in the black mills of war

Some may forget the poets, and
all that came before

But I can't ignore the mystery,
and sup at the ornate cup for more

Like a ritual libation, burning through-
you continually regret, yet relish

Its singular pleasures and the
sublime shock that gets

You every time you read Thomas,
as a sunrise, mirrors sunset

The world may forget the poets,
As in its dark folds falls

But look at the Velvel history, of
Larkin, laboring in his halls

To bring us slices of unique humanity,
Where all were surely aimed

Square at our hearts and guts, and through
the echoing caverns of our brains

They may forget the poets, but I feel Hardy now,
As though the fog bell breath of morning,
was ushered in, and his pen just fell.