Tuesday, December 06, 2005

Bird Food

Poems are boorish things
Never perfect, sometimes obtuse
Requiring dictionaries
Loose interpretations like a sack
Caught at the end of the morning’s line
Only to be detached, examined and thrown right back

The poem is a worm
Eaten by early birds
Words placed in sequence but out of sync
In ways that make dull heads think
Or ache
Language is broken to be remade
The poem is a bastard creation

Ever since we boxed up meaning
We made experiments to shake it
Crack it
Break it into halves
Wear it like hats when we're drunk and slurring
The blur of words churning in the bowl
Maybe it would be easier to unpack feelings
And let them roll on the kitchen floor
Underfoot while we’re cooking
And when no one’s looking
We kick them squealing out the door

Poetry is for the birds
Let them pick over it on the lawn
And then before a sentence finishes
With a flap of wings like applause
It’s gone.

No comments: