If a poem
were a disease,
it'd be the world's
laziest fever—
one content to fester
slowly behind the scenes,
turning up your temperature
by quiet half-degrees
rather than seizing you
and burning you to death
in a delirious fusilade
of the most ecstatic sneezes.
*
If a poem were a garden plot,
it'd be a hopeless patchwork
of some the world's most
delicate words,
surrounded and nearly
choked from existence
by species after species
of rude wild invasives.
Your best, if not your only
chance at success
would be to perform a regular
controlled-burn of the situation.
*
it'd be a neon slot machine—
too garish to ignore,
and purpose-built
to contain
that meaning you need
but never just dispense it
at the pull of a lever
or slake your desire
to break it wide open,
plunder its treasure,
and drain its allure.
