Every Poem An Invention

Every poem An invention Some would say: When a romantic Creates a breathing rose In the mind For the heart of another A far superior find Than all Man’s Relativities— So— Let Einstein rest Of his atoms Undressed; And Galileo Further divest In some far Distant sky, Too far off Even For modern Glass-eye Perhaps now, As I, Would also decry: That the artist, alone, Sees and lives, A true icon, Beyond the grave— A slave not to science, But to love and beauty; With far more inquisitive duty, That of revealing The Universe The soul of it Divine—