Why read poetry if it won’t make you rich? by Joy Sullivan

For starters, your soul will get bigger.

Your love, more terrible and luminous.

Soon, you’ll say tender things at parties

after too much champagne. A sidewalk

quince, wet with midnight, will stop

you in your tracks. In time, you’ll

find the perfect metaphor for your

child’s face. All at once, you’ll see

the world and want it again;

clothes flapping on the line,

lilacs strewn and seeding, the luck

of worms. An artichoke with its heart

torn hot and steaming from the throbbing

crown will suddenly turn you on.