Anachronism

A poet's an anachronism
And poetry's absurd.
Their minds full of philology,
Idolatry of words.

Who make of their experiences,
Or such as love and rage
So much the less; their circumstance
Enscribed upon the page.

Or maybe hording reminiscence,
Like some miser's gold.
Recording every moment's nuance
As if a secret told.

Slave to circumspect observances
With ready pen in hand.
No wage set, nor deliverance
And none that understand.