• The Poem




    Appropriately enough the poet is not known
    and cabal is suspected – caballeros after
    the wordplay, if horseplay. The (k)night poem is made up
    of six quatrains, each line having thirteen syllables.

    The rhymes hide in sympathy with the poet, not one
    within a stanza, nor half nor interior, and how
    autonomous it is even where a syllable
    a word, a line, stanza, poem itself! is missing

    The phantom is for art’s sake yet didactic: Be you
    as the Holy Ghost is, your own figure of speech. Go
    figure. Is the thing reflected only apparent
    or real? Does the straight line curve, the world’s edge await?

    Who could have crafted it? Not Sawi, unless the same
    before the recognition, which cannot be until
    gravitas is graffito, opaque lies transparent
    Woman wears, is her nudity; the heart’s north afire

    The poem reveals its fullness in a sixth if found
    but the poet knows it is only an idea
    albeit one using, perusing infinity.
    How many strings when they tremble are there in the lyre?


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