Elegy for Poetry

all the trees have been written to a sort of permanence—

reds, yellows, umbers, evergreens hanging out in a book

dusty on its shelf. someone wrote about the political climate,

an ugly insect. the word ‘God’ has appeared in rhymes

so often I must sleep with my eyes open out of fear

a stray line finds me guilty. what’s left to say that hasn’t been

tucked neatly into the folds of a villanelle?

not that we can’t welcome beauty—it’s everywhere.

not that we shouldn’t lament—psyche lies exposed

like a crinkled centerfold. there remain injustices to bemoan

(been done), discoveries that wow & awe

(all words as one, all words our own), a next first love &

loss to praise & mourn (again, again), yet the pen

is never mightier than the silencer. it leaves smudges

on a page—we call that art. ink stains our thumbs.

we think it emotion after the casket has closed.

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