Poetry is a foolish way to die,
not to let yourself put it down, I mean,
with pen or pencil, or computer keys,
clickety-clack: step on a crack,
break your mother’s back . . .
Why dawdle? Let thunder, lightning
and rain come down upon the earth,
turn the birch to char, level the houses
nobody lives in.
The rain, the rain, it falls upon the plains . . .
which were and never will be home.
Now that you’ve found the magic slate,
keep it dry. Lift it up when you want,
conjure whatever may rekindle life.
(11 January 2013)
copyright 2013 by Floyce Alexander