unintentional masterpieces, we
are all glass spheres
that shattered on impact
reglued into boxes by our mothers
sharp-cornered and hiding nothing
but we were meant to whirl
in airless wonder
“A metaphor is not an oyster fork, a utensil to be employed on rare and singular occasions. Sonic tension isn’t a pair of sugar tongs, a tool for teatime alone. Image, language, sound. Napkin, plate, knife. Regular, usual implements of the table.
Never pour gravy on an empty plate nor heap flourish upon the vacant husk of a poem.
Let no guest wait long for his meat. Linger not over opening lines. Proceed with main course and poem alike lest shoulder of lamb turn cold … and even colder shoulder of reader be given.
Do not rush to eat the epicure’s meal. Never give cursory eye to a luminous poem.
Prepare neither banquet nor ballad in haste. It is rude to the process of both.
It is permissible to eat the peach.”
(I’m working on exercising poetic muscles daily. Check it out. Follow along. You’re invited.)