Poetry is a destructive force; the men
that are falling are men
made out of words. Pieces
of the man with the blue guitar
are dry birds fluttering
in blue leaves.

Poetry is a dove in the belly
of ordinary women; chaos
in motion and not
in motion, like the sea
surface full of clouds.

Poetry is a tattoo of the bird
with coppery, keen claws
on the world without peculiarity.

Poetry is a continual
conversation with a silent man
on a yellow afternoon; the creations
of sound from the debris
of life and mind. Anything
is beautiful if you say it is.