by Darryl Price
Are all my words lonely, or nearly departed,
Visible only from the ankles down, nonchalant? I
Get bored. All my words are not paying
Strict attention to television. I get distracted. All
My words, coincidental though they may seem, are
Like any ordinary, nasty scar—sad-looking, sensitive, and
Deep, but who cares, right? It's all blah,
Blah, blah. Useless information. All my words are
Perfect examples of thinking of you and not
Complying with the rules of engagement at all.
Bad, bad, bad poet. All my words are
Being completely torn from the cuff, broken into
Rinsing, hungry parts, and strewn out across a
Heart-shaped field like the stars that silently surround
Us. All my words are another living creature
Altogether. And, yes, all my words disappear under
The water that is your person like so
Many bonny swans looking for tasty treats in
The swirling expressions of your dancing falls. Insert
Any word you'd like. It all applies. All
My words are like a small cake. I'm
Not like everybody else-- in this regard, but
I'm not sure any of it matters. All
My words repeat the same question. Wouldn't mind
Helping me out here, would you? All my
Words have run off into the sunset. All
My words cough politely. All my words create
A vacuum. All my words, in between breaths,
Are too complicated to explain themselves to the
Jury. All my words spin around like satellites.
All my words are mortal. All my words
Are crammed onto these few words like ants.
All rights reserved.
There would be no need for a garden unless it was alive with people to share in its splendor. A poet plants a lot of words while he can hoping for something splendid to happen to someone in the presence of his words. But it's more a matter of graceful weather than soiled hands. Still he can be thankful for the chance to help something beautiful to be found beneath the roiling sky--if his luck holds out.