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.