There are those who see
Rhymes sometimes
In these beguiling minefields,
And hear sweet palm trees breathe
In slowbreeze moonlit nights,
But not those teeth gnashing
In teeming shadowed soil below.
They may see pink roses blush
In noontime's startled light,
But miss the root-blood
Fiercely pulsing thorn-veins.
The calling:
Die to known;
Banish expectations;
Slash all nets;
Leap wild in unforgiving air,
Spiralwhirly-dizzy-down
To hungry lions
Stretched on psyche's
Blood-drenched earth,
Waiting, watching,
Devouring feathery word-birds
Snagged in sightful
Starlight nightflight.
If a poem dares to die
To fashion's moods and modes,
And live informed anew,
Life's sweet singing sighs
Sound, as well, like
Primal thigh-bone horns
Braying hot down
Stony canyons
To the sea.
