Poetry, as I perceive it,
And no offence, alright;
Is not this:
Writing as I would speak to someone
Only stacking the lines one on top of the other
Instead of next to it, in a paragraph.
If I were to put my strophes in a straight line, and end up with a Facebook status,
No matter how great,
This is not my poetry.

What poetry is
The lick of moonlight that betrays the mouse’s tail
The crickets over the careful cat’s march
And a microscopic last breath between a crush of the fangs.