Road
This is what poetry is (says the
Road),
a laying down of uniform pattern
across a land you can't control
but which you think it best to
flatten.
It's far from vivid. Look at the
whole
flamboyant forest! Look at the
paths
that can't be uttered by a mouth
and at the scattered arcs of light
more integral to this wide planet
than words will ever be. Your
lines?
Like railroad tracks that cut the
bracken,
bring something through, then
disappear.
No one knows what speck was taken
or where it moved, and no one
cares.
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