From letters...

Lets make fittings into this skeleton

And churn out of our ramble

A chorus of poetic vendors shouting

Something due for relief, something due for long.

I’ve struggled you know, to grasp and look

At the pools that contained the falling water, pick

Up and leave.

But tonight, I am seized by a lust more

Stronger than a poet’s ambition.

For no poet is lavished more than his manuscript allows

No metaphor placed further away from his

Acknowledgment than this.

Is there any place in the configuration of poetry

to raise the question of why and how a sentence deigns to be?

Because I am devoid of a shape,

In possession of a subject that spasms out of control.

Who can tell- how many borders I’ve crossed?