Formula for that Beautiful Poem

There must always be some form of sadness,
a realization, yearning for some place to live
in. There is always the self: the inevitable I

or you whom it constantly blames.
Why is it that the most equally trusted poem
needs explanation? Why is there a motion

to pepper the simplest fact or
to guise sentimentality as an equal
denial of truth to affirm, yes,

affirm a necessity in silence.
How is beauty irrelevant when
all we ever write about wants

to be beautiful? How is meaning important
when the poem forgets its sleep
while you wake up repeating

the same day
all over again –


-- Dominique Santos