A perusal of an anthology,
(Narcissus supplied this sword)
Housman, Yeats, Ms. Millay,
(you get the gist)
Fourteen hundred and fifty
dog-eared, well-trained pages,
and it's just a scratch of fleas
on the rear end of poetry.
And people think me queer,
when I struggle with self-doubt
(also known as temporary reality)
and throw away, without regard
to their good-willed vanity,
(and pop psychology)
my words that don't belong.
Poetry is tangible,
and an influx of anything
brings the value down.
and I love words too much
to depreciate them.
And so I wonder,
in my infinite wisdom,
(and an eye on economy)
just when it might be
that words will perish
from unrequited love,
and wither away,
giving birth to a flower
aptly named after this villainy?
I don't do blurbs.
