it would be easier to believe if the poet was not about anything Either
the poet is a blanched pea, some vesuvius spout
pointing letter writing hands and claiming dynasty
deep in the ham sandwich head is a rasping file
loosely taking millimetres from the organ mouth of a heart fool Either
knowing or unknowingly nude
Or naked being watched and leered upon by wit and wisdom Either
begged borrowed or bloating
but one or the other is a crude parenthesis
as a side note to existence.
And anyway, I’d rather not choose.