To be honest,
I find this stuff
from the writers who’ve scaled
this bluff before me.
These are their words,
not mine.

I find this stuff
in the trees and trails.
Under rocks near cool, clear streams.

I find this stuff
in our gallows and glory.
In our cocktail plunder
where lords and ladies
engorge.

I find this stuff
between the seats
where writers before me
sat staring: At screens, at tits,
at bottles of elegant grape.

Their daily indictments
I translate wholly.
What they mean
is up to you.