>Good

>When poets don’t have a thing to say
In the way of segue or ending
They talk to trees: Oak, Pine, Poplar, Spruce

Doesn’t matter what they meant to say
Anything that shudders and drop seeds
Will attend, fetishizing Whitman

The metaphor gets contrived, conceited
& the direct rebellion against it, solipsism
Shoves the reader into first person’s moth-eaten closet

A philosophical realist there will thrive
Where he can thrust his hips toward the lips
Of the unassuming eye of you know who.

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