Now as at all times I can see in the mind’s eye, In their stiff, painted clothes, the pale unsatisfied ones Appear and disappear in the blue depths of the sky With

Ram my knees with your red plastic cart full of cheap plastic shit and I’ll tell us both of the savior of all human hearts who would rather I didn’t say

“Poetry makes nothing happen,” Auden flatly declares in “In Memory of W. B. Yeats [https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/memory-w-b-yeats],” yet Auden goes on to suggest that poetry is nevertheless “a way