Where is poetry? It is nowhere but in words.
It has less relevance to us than the sound of hidden birds.
This is the real earth. We are about to kiss.
What does metaphor and bird calls have to do with this?
What is your lip, that poetry thinks you will
make a plea with it, after we are still?
After we have made love, where is the line
that traces back to poetry,
informing abstraction of the symbol and the sign?
It is nowhere. It does not exist.
Poems cannot compete with tiny hairs upon your wrist.
The German song attached to voice and dainty tune,
makes poetry die beneath the silent moon,
a moon which gives off actual light.
Imagine poems coming into our sight.
How ridiculous. Keep your poems away.
Romance will laugh at this word-play.
But this is a serious affair: a career
of kisses. Poems are forbidden here.