About a poem
To read a poem
is to know nothing.
Even when I search obscure references
online, my ignorance appalls and punctures
bloated air sacs of mind,
shushing Nor’easters to zephyrs.
I would spend the rest of my days
in the company of poems, or perhaps, choose one
to dismember, gnaw at, swear by
until it wears me down to gristle.
I’m getting old now and go early
to bed . My poem tags along,
recounts deftly that we have suffered deeply,
and then sometimes,
we have sex.