I keep reading 
The news

When what I need to read
Are poems
Beautiful verses
And nonsense tripping phrases
And philosophy moving
And rage streaming
And love (because you only write poems if you love)
And those ramblers I only
Half understand
But the joy is in the mystery
The grasping against the words
And the sense that someone
Knows the universe better than I do
Because that hopeful grasping
Is what keeps the soul going