Word


foolproof but we poets
are fools

recycle boxes
and the arms of Mr. Norm

until the juggernaut of commerce
prose melts into the human form

and we walk a certain way
from the café

to the copy centre juggling
the forms of our mentor

Mr. Will and his bill to let
the language breathe beyond the letters

arranging themselves into androgynous
greetings at the corner

of a thought beyond profit
or how Mrs Smith

will live so long before she no longer
takes out the garbage

or continues to breathe
even though her garden

continues to grow Impatiens
long into October

and the first frost of that month
when they turn into incomplete sentences

and are underlined in green