Formalist conceit: striving mad
'Til driven mute, the pattern
wraps you up in a
blanket made of shackles.
See the poet Pagliaccio
Suffer muses' scorning laughter,
Bound and stricken witless, dullard.
Sheathe that poison knife you call a tongue,
Leave the pen your gun in its holster.
Cast your bullet words into the gutter.
The formless form: scatter words and
Enjamb your wits against null space.
The water is the container, no buckets,
No brackets. From disorder, order.