This should raise some discussion.
Who put a magnet in the loin
to watch it pulled clean through a mortared wall?
The a cappella traffic gives mice
& birds migraines— make(s) food a weapon!
Younger poets are charmed by polysyllables
: they’ve ample time to waste
—am i still young or have i always been
this old? My allotted time
has never felt that short | so much spare
then what to do with it all?
As poets grow grey & dewlaps skip
the floor they switch from scudding words
to steady | stomping monosyllables |
to keep the time they have from pecking bone.
The sun has left off land | 2 cats melt
into rock & shadow | stalking ducks
with water at their back | the cats
know better than to lunge the arc of dusk.