I haven't yet realised the ease
With which the poet allows intimacies
To slip away into the welcoming
Embrace of the reader.

I am no wild Byron, sowing my seed
On all grounds, stony and fertile alike
(Though perhaps that is just as well
For posterity).

I have no cause, no plan, no scheme,
Nothing to fight for or even espouse:
A true postmodern product of a time
Lacking imagination.

A constant running commentary
On myself - a work which does the jobs
Of critics and academics alike -
They must surely be grateful.

So I sit and write myself a letter:
"Solipsism and self-absorbtion
Are a circular labyrinth
With no exit.

"Look outside.
- Sincerely, C. Treacy."