I expect
the day when
Poetry is no
longer forcefully
mulled
over
words,
when we commit
it
as of
us,
when we
reek
of it,
or rather
Poetry
reeks
of us,
not shunned or shunning by
the traps in
word-ings.
We Poets then
will truly spurt
and raise an elegy
off
the skin.
That one faithful day
libraries and others will shed
books,
letters and papers,
like finally autumn
leaves,
our chips into small
encasings
like pearls with shells
their.
And
those who choose us
on the shelves will
receive the reward
of our dragging
into
our depths like
persistent algae,
for
a while,
or forevermore.
And I’ll finally be
able to unveil to them:
“I am one of Poetry’s
revelations.”
For now/
pay the lyrical’s heed/
in its written ways/
by the respect of every/
blank space ending/
before each and every verse/
it brings/
Expectations towards the way Poetry’s sharpened, like earth to metal clustered,
for vending mists.
I wait for the lip-like, felt transfer.
I wait to for the first time under
standing customers on the sale
for our chippings made easy.
I wait for my affection’s freedom from
paper, pen, glue and shopping stink.
I make an everlasting patient boycott
On a bench clear.
