No Exit
Men die every day for the lack of what is in poems.
If I say so, birds tip over. These beautiful first editions
Under bright glass in cases are like blocks of ice that
Won’t melt. Men die every day while these books
Gather dust. Why don’t we just burn them?
Tonight the moon is so bright you could read
A book by its light. You know what you can do
With your goddamn romantic moon. The moon
Won’t melt, it’s not a round slice of stinking French
Cheese, either. If I say so, the moon melts. Words
In a poem aren’t just words, but a poem. One two
Three four. This is a poem for Jack Spicer. One
Way to tell is to test it. Maybe I have the formula
Backwards. If I say so, birds tip over. Every day,
Books get tossed into dumpsters because there are
Too many of them. Toss out the birds and bring back
The moon, I say. You know what you can do with your
Goddamn first editions. This poem is dedicated to
No one.
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