Poetry is not dead
It is playing possum
In a thousand indifferent places.
Poetry is jumping from the top rope
Wearing a yellow leather mask.
Poetry is sitting on the post-hurricane
Slop jar in the dark.
Poetry is asleep in the bullpen
While the tense game plays on.
Poetry gathers silence where the moon
Barrels across the Jacob Fork River.
Every day, somewhere in light so fresh,
A copperhead can smell it,
Poetry leaps to its life.
No comments:
Post a Comment