poetry, i tell you, need not careful inspection

you just read it
silently
then louder
louder by the second
until you run with the words
with needled leaves
or flying cottons dernched in blue
orange
red
violet
with gates suspended in air
or photographs covered in mud
salt
water
cake
with balloons that burst to dust
or screens that talk in dreams
songs
shouts
curses

you run, not walk; not stroll but run
periods are hated
why put an end?
a minute, merciless globe that says "and so I am."
there should be no fixtures
imagine yourself crying and laughing
or sitting down by the side of the road
or lying down nursing a throbbing head
do you say, "this is it. I shall be," or "so I am. so I am?"
waht a pitiful exercise on living then!
and reading and writing poetry, too (most times they come together -
poetry and life)

you gather images and run along with them
not imitate them
not memorize them
not eat them
not study them;
get a piece, find another
blow them to the wind if you may;
there is no fixture
no end