March 07, 2007

On Reverdy Road

They like poetry that isnít.
Not the kind that wakes into you
the way eyes gleam candid

in shadow, untrimmed wicks,
or that you grab from casual breezes
barehanded at dawn. When

donít the words in a poem
count? When they fall into a pit
and Dear Reader goes tumbling after.

 
—Barry Schwabsky
____
from the sequence For Despair, published as a chapbook by Seeing Eye Books, Los Angeles, 2005.

Posted by dwaber at March 7, 2007 12:54 PM