On the Literature Shelves
A poem rests upon the page. That rest
Is calmer than the calmest man. The lines
Have no desire. They are not like a chest
With nipples, hair, or heartbeat that defines
Hard ribcage yearnings. Poems do not want
A reader or his praise. They need no eye
Upon their words. They do not even haunt
The paper they are on. Rhymes do not cry
Like ghosts for something lost or something they
Imagine that they need one night outside
The bindings where they lie. They do not neigh
For feeding of their egos. They just hide.
But poets are not made of woodchip mush and ink.
They want some soul to mouth with them in sync.