Think of the world as poetic in itself.
Nothing needs be added by me to turn
the flowers into ferocious colors.
Shadows require no input from me to
stretch their long wings into first light.
The long thin sliver of horizon isn’t
made the more mysterious by words I
speak to the audience of would-be’s
gathered in the hall where poets
announce their presence by spitting
into the mic and gesticulating to the
back row while their sentences run on
and on into that gaping maw of infinite
connections – the internet.
The world itself is by far the more
poetic one in the room, any room.
Which is why Frost was doomed the
moment he raised his hand.

A Lover’s Quarrel With the World