Poems are not fossilized insects, caught mid-buzz
in amber, shakespeared museum pieces
with the correct number of feet in the meter,
waiting to be dusted off and counted,
or fizzed in pop culture, orange soda shaken
and hallmarked to the singsong tick
of a driveled metronome.
It’s not about form anymore.
This playing tennis without a net
volleys inside what’s spoken–call it poetry
or pretty prose, the difference is felt in the bones,
strung by breath and assonance if we have ears for it,
or blood pulled by a moon in full perigee, and the surety
of knowing night sings to us in the voices of crickets,
certain as day shouts the hard blue of sky, broken
by sunlight and poured into valleys.
A Dali is no da Vinci, though his art filters light
like stained glass does sun, from somewhere under the canvas,
and van Gogh stars reel over the world
in no known constellation. Unchained, this art of paint
or words stretches past what’s expected and touches spirit.
Even if the face is jumbled.
Even if the words don’t rhyme.