All modesty is false modesty when it comes to poems, or to the silence in which poems begin before they are words, when they are still daisies at the foot of the dead Christ in an anonymous painting, 13th century. Not to know how to live is one thing, and nothing to be ashamed of. But not to know how to sit in front of those daisies with tears in my eyes: what a waste that would be.
Copyright © 2017 Jim Moore. Used with permission of the author. This poem originally appeared in Kenyon Review, November/December 2017