The spoken word
          is a  w i l d  thing,


It                               around,
              leaps
                              

                    ping-pongs from
           tongue           to            cheek


                     knocks down
                                                        teeth

 ­                        on    its    way    

                         out,

            shows up a little
            mangled, rough-
            housed.

I prefer it tame,
locked safely
behind thick
pen-stroke bars
in a prison of
crisp, cream
leaves or
LED screens.

Then, with a
        whip
                 crack it’ll
jump through
hoops, balance
             on
             a
             leg, ride
elephant poems
to a few cheers.

I swear it
ain’t mistreatment;
you see,

words

keep
   their
      meaning
      when
    written
   up
 tight.