I can't remember whether I heard Donald Hall or Robert Bly say that a title to a poem is the equivalent of the poet jabbing the reader in the ribs with an elbow, saying: Do you get it? Do you get it? Whether Hall or Bly, here's a poem with no title.
I've
come to help you, she said,
The
wind is strong and it might
Blow
you over. I don't want you to fall.
Two
others called out:
She's
taking care of you;
You're
a lucky guy today.
She
held out her elbow for
Him
to take. They left
The
building, headed for his car.
Watch
your step, this wind
Is
fierce. He tightened his hold
On
her arm. Thanks, he said.
The
southern sky was robin's egg blue;
Black
clouds were forming to the north.
Here
we are, she said, opening the car door.
He
slid safely into the driver's seat,
Clicked
the belt, and then
He
inserted the ignition key.
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