the wishbone of craft is deft with smoke from heaven's shop of horrors; it is quick with lament, slick with growth of antiquity, prime with filial foul, lush with trope & rime
the poem needs the pen and
not just the paper or else the
paper would write itself and that
is just silly; are you the pen or
the paper and can you wish otherwise?
if craft be your portal to open spaces
can you switch and pick one of the
children, feed her and let her grow
so that she feeds you? if craft could
answer that, you would feed many orphans.
listen, the red ant of tarred
a screech, an ounce of astute
poseidons launch theatrical
very little consequence, but
goes mindlessly, mindfully on.