at the very least, rhyme
is required. But it's no use; you
can't make either work.
Your lines are not catchy,
nor are they terribly
instructive. But it feels
when you speak the words—
a jumble of phrases
about the glow behind trees...
and the mentality of morning...
and wishing you were younger—
all of which seem to glide
like an iridescent fish
in the deep and soundless
trenches of your mind—
that a third thing is happening.
A third kind of mattering.
That perhaps feeling, at its purest,
neither entertains nor teaches.
