poet as anti-pedant

You cannot say true without
   an eyewash

You cannot brook the house on
   fire and not

Burn the root of your verb in
   -tent on 

Harboring a dissenting noun-
   you cannot

Bring in luck to say fortune,
   for anyone

Whose eye is set on this sun,
   this stone,

This arrangement of pebbles -
with the grit of each word perched in the soft corner of trial
and 
error with the most you want from each blunt strand of past as
present
with making fire out of deadwood
     breath sits out un attached
     halves flit out as unknowns
You take in rage, the momentum of rage
   as it sinks into a
   grass
   root; as it

Becomes the heal; you take in
   the glib presuppositions
   as they  punctuate sense
   past
   the allowed

Actual; the acclimatized ideal;
   you take in the
   flame of abetment and
   swear
   incorrect.
What he called a sword was a sheath    lustful barometer
casting a trustless net over           here

What he called a swoosh was breath     nothing less
basking in a heathen tomb over         here

What he called a swan was a wreath     combed dusted
wanting flight as your youth over      here

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