This Poem

.

This poem is pooped, stooped
low and begging for a slow burn,
a quiet turn of phrase that might
just sizzle.

This poem (fo’ shizzle) has nothin’
new to say, no la-di-da way of
making sense of its own stunt
-ed syllables, or regret. And yet,

this poem needs to brag,
and bray and say what it means
into the lost fray of fragment
and filament and faux shizzle.

This poem wants to drizzle and
thunder and shake, snake itself
loose to grass, break itself open
to sky. (It has no idea why.)

This poem wishes it could fry
in its own fat, flatten itself out
into its leanest, meanest morsel,
force some dorsal fin or mermaid

tail aboard. This poem is bored.
It’s twiddling its thumbs and strum
-ming its last guitar, unraveled in
its own dark strings. This poem

would sing if it could remember
the tune, or any of the words, or
the way the moon might turn up
the volume of this last lost night.

This poem’s about to shadow-box
fight its way out of this bartered
box, these tocking clocks and all
things with too many hands, and

corners. This poem has no borders
or edges, no jumping-off ledges; it’s
swishing around, amoeba-like, run
-ny. It’s kinda funny. And now it’s done-y.