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POETRY
Meter
“ I see a lily on thy brow
With anguish moist and fever-dew,
And on they cheeks a fading rose
Fast witherist too. “ — Keats
The meter craves a quarter’s shine
ticks and tocks in moments spoken
it lays down options line by line:
take your pick, insert your token.
My words for measure: use a stick
marked with lines for purpose drawn.
Its judgment cuts me to the quick,
attempts mown down like grassy lawns.
If it’s perfection that you seek
I’ll point you further on your way.
Invention here serves but to tweak
and lay out what I wish to say.
See me anxious at your reading,
layered in an imposter’s cloak,
anguish banked and fever-breathing,
cheeks bloom roses, assurance chokes,
keen for a verdict spun with hope.
Well I spent my Saturday used-car-shopping (blah), so y’all are getting this offering late from me. Today’s…
