Sunday, 15 November 2020

poetry they say it is

poetry they say it is

written in an idiom

they say is poetry;

but me, i don’t call it.

i don’t ask what they call it.

i write and it calls itself 

- nothing.

it is not even an anagram for teapot

pouring the steeped and the stirred

the dark or the golden.

i drink it with a cake stand;

outside the hail sheets down

and the leaves swirl autumn,

and the blanket draws closer,

for the blotting is done.

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