Poetry’s sacred
  prose not so much

One to be read
  the other to touch

The verse spoken freely
  in a nighttime array

Phrases more conjured
  to outlive the day

The medicinal magic
  that hides in each line

Lifts my body to flight
  in a nocturnal climb

The prose gets pounded
  and pounded again

And its linear sense
  I find hard to befriend

As twilight appears
  from the corner of my eye

The couplets on fire
  I look to the sky

With my very last breath
  not taken in vain

It’s with meter and rhyme
—I call to heaven again

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2015)