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“Poetry exists only in the realm where we wonder what poetry is.” —Anon.
I read these other poems and wonder
is their ambiguity meant to be a comfort
or am I being threatened?
These poets who are show-offs in the realm of who-the-hell-knows.
How did they feed and ride the horse obscurity to victory?
I have no interest in seeing that race again.
It was dark. I couldn’t see the other horses.
Is this poetry, then? And only because
the obvious—fresh Italian bread with butter is like crack cocaine—
is not categorized as poetry by professors
who manage to make everything different tediously the same?
Everything is the same. And poetry doesn’t exist.
That’s the truth,
isn’t
it?
