If
maple syrup
was
the very blood of trees,
I’d
be their vampire.
Blue
carpet fibers
reaching,
curling underfoot
tickle
sole and soul.
Let’s
try some “magic”:
place
the veil over our eyes
and
force us to “dream.”
A
silly poet
playing
a moot language game,
tapping
his fingers.
“A
small flame inside”
is a
romantic first line;
it doesn’t
work here.
“Be
concise,” they say.
To me, life it too concise,
So I say, “delay!”
Breath-taking
genius
has
revealed itself to me
through
everyone else.
