A poet is a proscenium
His poems the stage’s entrails: casts
props and yarns of ensembles…
The word may still molest him.
A poem is a tyrant, and whimsical
The directions of her poetics
She frisks, a newborn deer
Tickling, teasing the heart – the flirt!
And poetry is politics
Slicker than crude
And torching and touchy
The brimming barrelfuls of musings
Lost to the draft
Deliquesced, between the toilet’s seat and the kitchen’s.