come here for
a respite from the storm,
I am sorry
to say that you've been
misinformed;
there's a despot
in the white space
and guerillas
at the margins.
There are sergeants
drilling crackpot logic
and halftracks of gibberish
and incoherence
patrolling with menace
the perimeters of this—
and every other poem.
From the epics of Homer
to the white chickens
of the Imagists,
it's shelter, some direction,
or a mantra you're after,
but the truth is
it's widdershins
the moment you enter—
and you hold no cards
within these borders.
Consider, dear reader,
the predicament you're in.
