and the absurd implication is that the world is a poem sprawled on the backs of leaves one word at a time. we're piecing them together like kaleidoscopic shards of sky fallen a long way from home. never quite the way it was before, because that is the function of a poet. to be imperfect in all the right ways. to snap the sanded edges until running your finger along the edge produces a weeping wound. each break spells out MASOCHISM and i am aglow for that single moment.
this is beauty. then the reader, still bleeding, lights the world on fire and divines meaning from the ashes scattering in the wind. my mouth tastes like ash now. i yield my post to robots, because i cannot be a poet today. the wind is too cold and furious. the sun too bleak. i step in poetic shit on my way to work. smear it in the grass and walk away