Thursday, April 12, 2018


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.