duck into the hole
crawl down the winding
luminous tunnel
polished by other crawlers
here is a silent world
that does not exist in summer
a child-devised warren
in a mound in plain sight
here a niche
where Jackie stowed his snowballs
for a rainy day
he laughed
here a twisting sub-tunnel
down into dark
Donald’s basement
pass quickly
emerge finally onto
sunlight
the dazzling battlements
ready to defy all
Poets on-line graze in their pastures
nuzzling amusement and despair like
sugar cubes from a friendly palm.
Old stallions usually aloof
will drive in hard when young fillies
try their first staggering steps.
Swaggering young studs brash
and strangely pert declare dead poets
dead—new bloodlines faster than fast.
And sweetly swooning mares love all
throw sugar across the corral
like corn at harvest home.
words, images lie around all night
leftovers in the gutters of my brain
waiting to fly into combinations
that breathe meaning onto the monitor
how prosaic is that?
I can write at night
or in the pre-dawn
sputterings of night
after fitful sleep
how prosaic is that?
maybe writing is
a brain misfire
that creates
divergent thought
how prosaic is that?
the moving cursor blinks
and having blinked
moves on
how prosaic is that?
