This is the poem that did not win the
prize.
This is the poem
that lingered in the back
of
the classroom.
This is the poem about losing the
poetic
impulse.
This is the poem regarding the moebius
strip
that
begins
this is the poem
This is the poem about the orange rind
haphazardly
tossed in the causeway
becoming
a tree.
This is the poem that questions the
difference
between
precarious and precocious.
This is the poem that speaks to language
impotence.
This is the poem about name-checking
Auden
or
some other dead poetic forefather –
Stevens,
Pound or Ashbery –
in
a wildly lamentable manner
in
a wildly lamentable poem
regarding
a wildly lamentable subject,
a
subject such
as
dead poetic forefathers.
This is the poem about Ashbery not yet
being
dead
technically
speaking.
This is the poem that is responsible
for every single
bent
light, telephone or utility
pole
dotting the wind
driven
loonshit
we
call home.
This is the poem that refutes all
other confessional poetry.
This is the poem that does not count
its blackbirds.
This is the poem
that declares
the
author responsible
for
all omissions
and
diminutions.
This is the poem that will not clarify
its meaning
through
thorough examination.
This is the poem
that knows of no poetry
in
functioning. Or querying.
Or
formulating.
This is the poem that denies all
burdens.
This is the poem that finds no comfort
in having
an
immaculate conception.
This is the poem
that ended before it began.
This is the poem that ran a stop sign,
plowing
into
a child-filled compact sedan
and
sped away from the scene
leaving
only a trace of crimson paint,
a
tinkle of turn-signal plastic.
This is the poem that does not count
loss.
This is the poem
that separates the wheat
from
the chaff.
This is the poem that knows no
tribulation,
that
sings no hosannas.
This is the poem
that does not know itself
to
be poetry.
This is the poem that recognizes the
smell of rain
for
all that it is – wet
oxygen
and hydrogen.
This is the poem that glides over the
surface.
that
skirts the issues,
that
walks the line.
This is the poem
that will not give
to
our collective experiences
an
“apt if precarious”
name.
This is the poem that must be read
to
be forgot
or
disregarded.
This is the poem that does not linger
on
the metaphysical implications
of
repetition.
This is the poem that does not linger
on
the metaphysical implications
of
repetition.
This is the poem about Calliope’s
absence in the process.
This is the poem regarding the simple
single glance
haphazardly
tossed
at
a Bradford pear tree
forever
trapped
in
the glance of an eye
in
full bloom.
This is the poem about the ineptitudes
of
beginnings.
This is not the poem about the
finalities
of
endings.
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