What is a Poet?
A poet is a pig for endorphins.
The beautiful world murmurs,
“Do me some jazzy, Dollink,
whisper my name.”
Poets are mainly reminders:
kin, in that way, to bears, orchids,
to kindly deeds, obsessive loves...
worlds emergent from rumors—TA-DA!
Muse, sweetheart, help me to speak
the winter-bowed sapling, the check-out girl’s
monitored pain, the mountains in sunlight,
the mountain-top-moments of exaltation.
Interlocked Dreams, More or Less Incomprehensible
In this dream where I’m teaching, only three kids
show up, so I wing it, waiting for others
who fail to appear, maybe my students
have slipped into another teacher’s
dream. “What’s with you strangers here?”
“Why, normally we’re with Barry Spacks,
“So why loiter here with us in my course
on cyber-heuristic flux? Never mind,
too late to send you back to Spacks,
just settle down—no seats? Sorry.
Squat, or stand, or lean on the walls.”