I am confused by critics
\nwho dissect poetry.
\nIt is,
\nsimply what it is,
\nair among feathers,
\nflurries in the night,
\nthe blanket of a kiss.<\/p>\n
Poets are peeled like oranges,
\ntheir juice dripping on the floor
\nlike blood,
\nwounded,
\nwanting only to have been eaten,
\nnot taken apart like machinery.<\/p>\n
As if the working of the parts
\nare the shadows
\nthat fill a machine,
\nand make it move.
\nI am an anti-soul,
\nAnti-logic,
\nAnti-intellectual,
\nAnti-phobic.<\/p>\n
Fill me with heat,
\nsun,
\ngreen grass,
\ngreen eyes,
\ngreen sea.
\nCups of dissolving stars,
\nlove, undisciplined,
\ngiven freely,
\naccepted with immensity.<\/p>\n
I want all the depths
\nthe universe creates,
\nall the heights
\nthrown into emptiness,
\nall the blue ready to rain down,
\nall the hands I can possibly touch,<\/p>\n
And given the few words I have
\nwoven into poetry,
\na bouquet for bare places,
\nnothing recondite,
\ndifficult,
\npreachy.
\nJust the portion of the world
\nleft behind inside me,
\nand the rest racing ahead
\nplaying hide and seek.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
I am confused by critics who dissect poetry. It is, simply what it is, air among feathers, flurries in the night, the blanket of a…<\/p>\n