Poetry is
the rose, gold, powder blue
of morning above Dexter
Poetry is
shards of the future
in yesterday’s trees
Poetry is
the stapler and expo marker
falling into eternal love
in the classroom of Time
Poetry is
that same empty classroom
save for four wandering souls
Poetry is
swallowing flowers
of fiery words
Poetry is
fitting the irrelevance of humanity
into a coffee mug
Poetry is
the bickering of Father Time’s
twin daughter and son
Poetry is
the imagination
of a scrap of carpet
Poetry is
all and none
of these anythings
Poetry is
a phoenix.