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Ars PoeticaA poem makes the impossible
possible.
The poet becomes
a flying proboscis
extracting nectar
from material and
immaterial things.
Then comes the metamorphosis
of the honey. Or
a fly in the attic
descends onto a dusty old book,
which is really the poet,
and the fly’s nomadic feet feel
at home
on the mellow skin of her pages,
as light and moveable
as glyphs and black letters.
Or three minds
become three blackbirds
of a silhouetted tree
transposing notes
into black flames
breathed onto the musical score
of a telephone line.
We know what becomes
of what is written,
the little curled tongues floating
down
on the current of creaking
and arid
centuries:
They are firebirds
whose truth-wings
burn, dissolving into us
in ash, and then one day
right here in the wet ink
from our pollen-laden pen
get reconstituted
into the dewy surprise
of a just-born flyer.--
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