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.
Gathering just-a-bit-o moss 
Wordplay..just words that don’t know who they’re talking to..or even who is talking…. 😦
In siding with the oppressed, there is no choice but to call out the oppressor, and thus verse can define its audience, find its voice and the possibility of it being mere wordplay either diminishes or at the very minimum flits away momentarily.
If it finds that tiny bit of courage..yes.