Poetry Isn’t Trending   Out of fashion now —   The long hours spent   Making and doing,   Turning and shaping lines,   For a dwindling clientele   Of other poets and academics   Who might notice   The grain of a line,   A phrase honed smooth   Or left rough as timber.   No one else cares to look.     And yet the trade persists —   If trade is even the word —   Since there is nothing to gain.   A dying art   Like the fletching of arrows,   Or the mending of clocks   With a dex

By lamp and by oil, we hunger the hours as the dusk's frost sets in. There is time: The trucks to Treblinka are not ready yet and...