first you must imagine a shiny poem new born printed like moses between two-pages of bulrushes.
Somewhere in a chapbook, peruse the scattered leaves in some independent book seller. Where they treated their books like prospero’s books at the end of The Tempest.
You will find – only the young buy from amazon the old long addicted to poetry’s chimera-hallucinogenic-elements of ink and paper must touch the chapbook; Run down the isles with their finds careful not to make the gaze of all the unread poetry books.
How dreadful the unspoken wail of unread poetry they snort like chained dragons speaking fiery sonnets.
If you should go that route be careful never gaze directly into their burning orbs of controlling metaphors. Then the poet in you will turn to stone like the gaze of basilisk.
Claim you treason-treasure wrap it in your burlap bag and juggle it home not stopping at a kansas city fountain to eat a couple pages-- how crisp is the book in your messager bag. for poetry is a fix for lotus-eaters that graze between the stanzas and when you get home you climb into your bed and take that mysterious chapbook and hold it tenderly as the moon arises in the window of your apartment and read deep as all your candles recede toward their bases descending as the flickering of flame and wax begin to pool on candle stands. still you read as metaphors kiss you like boundless winds for the poem unfolds before you all its tropes sing-like sparrows and then its images build new stairs in your inward mind as lines proceed up the sky-stained sky of infinity… ..and still the words speak and you must obey and follow until the last page turns and luminous ink letters emerge from all your pores.