Poem? Thought? It’s less than straight line
From to point to point through a wave,
And what’s the point of a wave
From a hand tucked in the grave?
We are what we love too much,
What we want too much to have,
To keep. Life? If words beg life,
Can it be said that words live?
Poems make us their own, Kay wrote,
Kay known just as prose and poems.
How much will you pay for us?
We make our beds in your rooms,
Brood thieves who steal through the hive
As grubs to mime your true thoughts,
Ooze to fool your sense of smell,
Urge you to feed us, feed us.
You’ll laugh and say you aren’t fooled.
You’ll laugh in our voice and say
As us you’re not fooled by us.
