a poem should exist purely as a cracked cup
on the breakfast table, girdled
by a helpless seam of possibilities.
a poem should not be smashed
by the hammer of interpretation.
a poem should remain cloaked with elation,
a bluefish swimming in a four poster bed.
a poem should be clear as a vacation day
taken with lemonade in the shade
of a canopied boat where your thoughts can float
over to purgatory and back again: a minor relief.
a poem should make you forget where you are,
should remind you of the star you saw last night
and thought: it must be a plane, it’s so bright!
(originally published in Silkworm, the journal of the Florence Poets Society)