does a poem have heart or shall it sing of an anguished brilliance
bystanding a confabulated dance of looking the other way?
does it have soul or shall it repeat syllables of infinite grace
that pound the little somethings into beatified nuances? does
a poem need bother at all as none of it matters when you
have a full belly & a head full of universalities symmetrized
into a cognition that is clockwork itself? and if it does matter,
will it matter too soon to care or can the caring wait for the
hocuspocussing of a prophecy as full of itself as your belly?
Gathering just-a-bit-o moss 