The odd rumor, delivered
in enjambed and
tremulous whispers,
maintains the suspicion
that Poetry survives—
in those wild haunted
fields, beyond
the great walls
of Ordinary Language—subsists
on raw honey, loose
grubs and dry
beetle shells—and occasionally
pays visits there
to barter for medicine—
after long nights spent
coaxing and trapping a few
wandering souls
in a fragile
old milk bottle—for use
as currency.
