The axes of your work, work that
throughout the illusory chaos of your lifeabsorbed your essential
mind, were there always—What was
there to be done. You saw many menrefuse, or try to refuse
what needed to be done. Whether they could not
find it, or were, finding it, disgusted, theywithout it wandered, like Jamuqa.
Frank Bidart, “The Fourth Hour of the Night”, in Poetry Magazine, May 2015