for Drumhound,
whose poems make me weep in the early morn.

Which drop in the salt sea can say
I am better, I am the best,
only the visceral,
vis-a-real,
truth from the vision.

This drop we cherish,
this drop is serious,
this drop, we keep.*

No man is a poet
to his wife and child.

First Foremost,
he is just theirs,

Then the world can have him
as just a poet,
after they are done,
loving him for his totality.


Drumhound has no definition in the dictionary.

So I wrote this, my own, my visceral, my virtual one,
my vision real and realized,
his word vise on me, surreal.

Plain among poets,
a salt sea drop I keep.

Once anything is defined, it exists forever.

like a single scraggly blade of grass
of a poem I once memorized,
about a child I did not know,
but know so well,
a human-memory survives perennial,
once defined, forever lives.