It's a two-handed occupation.
You need both hands to wrestle the words,
those fierce and friendly alligators,
to tussle with those big rambunctious dogs.

Poetry is as delicate as dancing,
as sexy as the horizontal bop.

Poetry is frowning and smiling, breathing

and singing, it's walking barefoot through meadows,

kneeling to bless and kiss the dew-splashed grass.

It's driving down a back-road in a northern October
when foliage crescendoes in the wreckage of itself.

Poetry is local and universal. Poetry ain't beanbag.
Poetry demands the truth, especially if invented!

Poetry finds himself in a loved one's hair
cascading over her shoulder. Drinks the starlight
that streaks her wild abundant chevelure.