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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