The axes of your work, work that
throughout the illusory chaos of your life

absorbed your essential

mind, were there always—What was
there to be done.
You saw many men

refuse, or try to refuse

what needed to be done. Whether they could not
find it, or were, finding it, disgusted, they

without it wandered, like Jamuqa.

Frank Bidart, “The Fourth Hour of the Night”, in Poetry Magazine, May 2015