Cluse

 

I’ve seen enough of the reclusive poet!

Perhaps the leave the –re

Hanged, fixed on a better word

-Re is to repeat again

Yet, let this happen no more.

 

Let that poet fold his of language

Into pocket treasuries of diction  

and crash his vehicle into word banks

so that he may never use THAT junk again

 

Let the blank side of verse 

be employed to print plane tickets

To far off shores

That he can touch with his whole body,

Not just foreign feet

 

And let the poet –cluse

And warm his hands by the fire

dig his toes into the black sand

Made from the ashes of charred books

On a beach blaze

reaching high into a pagan night 

 

Copyright © Dominique Ficalora