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There's a young man sends me verse; his best is strong and
assured, easy in its elegance yet full of feeling —
he's found his own voice to go with his convictions,
though I can tell he admires Frost,
Stevens, and Yeats. He sent me one called "The Greats,"
fourteen tapering lines, that insinuates there's a dearth
of solid poets now but that it's all cyclical
and if we wait they'll come around: see where he fits in?
Yeah, he's got pluck, the romantic bravado of a bard,
but I'm sure his poems will find a home
because he dares a bull's-eye on his heart,
even striding out in his lines like long shanks —
all I can do is return them with "thanks."
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