I wish I could
conquer the page the way
the bird conquers the sky…
because the construction evolved
without conscious being.
Perhaps the poet should lay down the pen
spill the ink and sit
waiting for time to catch up?
Instead we string things along…our poems
having more in common with beads
than the act of flying.
After the final punctuation we then
stand back and hope for an ovation as loud
as any explosion.
Like ancient tracks, we should lay
down all synaptic moments of pride…
ski downhill with gravity
so that when the end comes
it comes clean — art
as a knife and ego the aorta cut to bleed:
Finally the body of work
spread-eagled and flying far ahead
into the future’s past.