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.