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About this Poem 

"I wrote this poem thinking about geologic time—the vastness of it compared to human time and human culture. I probably also had in mind Andrew Marvell's poem "To His Coy Mistress" (Had we but world enough, and time). So, I guess the poem is about time. Love and time and not ever having enough of either one."
—Sandra Simonds

Poem with Lines from Pierre Reverdy

Sandra Simonds

Maybe the world will not be saved.
It will not be saved. Its commerce, its
every case also
moves into its geology
and then that geology moves
into some great exit of slowing
clocks and the history of saved light.

Listen, I’m not crazy. I want you to save
something for me. If someone says
something false, I will tell that person
“you are false” because I am full
of exaggerations and energy
and also because sunlight scatters
across this lake and just one beam
is enough to make my body insane.

The world will not be saved by despair
so we should spend it all on joy, right?
I despair. Does he despair? The desperate
characters walk onto the stage.
The stage a lake the lake a self I staged
The lake the self I staged.
They sing off key like me. There is no
harmony but when the children clap their
little hands, well, neither is there simile.
I washed the dishes; I folded the laundry.
I wanted to walk around this lake
like an innocent.

Copyright © 2013 by Sandra Simonds. Used with permission of the author. This poem appeared in Poem-A-Day on June 5, 2013. Browse the Poem-A-Day archive.

Copyright © 2013 by Sandra Simonds. Used with permission of the author. This poem appeared in Poem-A-Day on June 5, 2013. Browse the Poem-A-Day archive.

Sandra Simonds

Sandra Simonds is the author of Mother Was a Tragic Girl (Cleveland State University Press, 2012). She teaches at Thomas University and lives in Tallahassee, Florida.  

by this poet

poem

If I wasn't such a deadbeat, I'd learn Greek.
    I wouldn't write sonnets; I'd write epics
and odes. I'd love a man who was
    acceptable and conformed to every code.
I'd put together my desk and write my epic or ode
    at sunset over my suburb. How I would love my shrubs!
But all I

poem
Sometimes I try to make poetry but mostly 
    I try to earn a living. There's something still living
 in every urn, I am sure of it. The ash moves 
       around inside the vase like the magnetic filings that make 
the moustache of Wooly Willy. Maybe a new face counts 
      as reincarnation. The wand says, "I'