Not a Grave
Poem
Keep from me
the livid quiver of uncertain poems, the poetics of madness
their bridgewalking
words
Not a grave
poem, or set of thoughts on struggle
with another
metaphor of death
I cannot
channel one more sad line, mine others’ pain
whose eyes
sink low on the head
Nor can I
gouge out my own pain, summoning illusions of equanimity
in the
crying room of childhood
Not dismay,
disgust, depression or doom, nor any other D word
scrawled
into the history of gall
Spare me, screen, from the livid quiver of uncertain poems,
the poetics of madness
their bridgewalking words
Mark my word.
A thin slice of now--limitedly aware of itself--tunnels
straight to
its scarce root
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