I slump into poetry,
heave into it.
shift it across the floor and wave,
at the neighbours.

I dangle from its filmy gossamer,
pluck the spindles upon which it moves,
I fold it among the sweatshirts and wrinkles,
placing it in place, by other cherished artifacts.

I cascade into poetry,
ignite each little molecule,
remove its pits and stones,
study them.

And let it propel me, with avidity,
Into each and every fading hour.
Then, submit, as I'm shanghaied
onto a ship of poetic voyagers.

and there is someone, on this earth,
whom I'd feel saccharine
for.