the grab of my teacup

the grab of my teacup
is real

in the same measure as
your fear

breaks new ground when
it meets

the river stalk, plain,
unground.

inmost verbiage

When does the poem cease to be mere wordplay and start living out its words in the tenements of a tiny courage, wilful but soaked in fear?

“…the myth of the equality of all individuals, when the question: “Do you know who you’re talking to?” is still current among us.” – Paolo Freire, “The Pedagogy of the Oppressed”

the structure of domination housed
in a tiny neuron frame in the insides
of the insides of your innermost
recesses – is the DNA that animates

your prose, your work of ought,
naught, verbiage, verse, as it claims
to know, to want to deem to know
the heart of snow, the flake.