Preparatory Meditations

You knew poets better
In print than in person,
The dead ones most of all,

And were struck by the ones
Who familiarly spoke
To their God as to Thou.

Who does any poet,
Writing in solitude,
Three thousand, two thousand,

Two hundred years ago,
Today, address, really?
You can guess by the way

The you or Thou’s addressed,
But come on. The blurred you
Is all the you there is,

Don’t you think? The poets
Addressing lovers, gods,
Idealized readers,

Are always addressing
And dressing down themselves.
It’s dress-up, theater,

A lonely game with us,
The names who’ll play with you,
Ghost words you can call you.