There is a poem, somewhere, here,
behind these words that ramble on
and with no seeming purpose try
to hint at meaning where there’s none.
There is a poem, somewhere, here,
between ramshackle rows of prose
that seem too weak to stand erect
or hold in a protruding gut.
There is a poem, somewhere, here,
despite itself, against all odds;
in lock-step cadence down the page,
it rolls on in a drunken march.
There is a poem, somewhere, here,
too subtle for its meager words,
that feel so common in the mouth
and leave their sour taste on the tongue.
There is a poem, somewhere, here,
beyond where critics dare to look,
afraid they might find nothing left
once deconstruction has commenced.
There is a poem, somewhere, here,
one ardent fan, at least, insists,
who seeks some message more sublime
than those who practice show not tell.
There is a poem, somewhere, here,
but I have failed to write it down;
like here, and now, its life is past,
and will not come again. It’s gone.
11 MAR 2009
