Where do we put the poems
as hard as stones and as fragile as robin’s eggs?
Do we nestle them in skulls
laid in tidy rows on shelves
or do we push them
into mass graves?
Do we wrap them lovingly in cotton and hide them beneath the floor?
lean from our balconies as Rome burns
And toss them to strangers?
Do we give them away with sex?
allow any act and
ask only that
our audience refrains from applauding
until we are done?
And all the poems still being written,
shitting like dust mites under the furniture,
gnawing like rats in the middle ages,
dealing Like brokers on Bay Street,
Growing like multiple embryos
in our wombs,
what do we do with them?
While waiting in a bus shack
I had my nose twisted by this Haiku:
A poem sleeping
Like a fawn in the woods
Wrapped in a sleeping bag.
This one I retrieved and rewrote, finally understanding the answer.
This is not new except in its present form. I am afraid if you compare writing poems to making bread I’d say mine is never actually past the “I’ve got the ingredients!” stage.