The poetry in Poetry

Wicked, I know, but who could resist?

Oh, this must be a poem,
from the lick-backed wobble
of word-induced glimmer,

from the near-likely brood
of dimple-starred crows,
these broad gallops of

weedy wings.

Like the grand chausee
or the midge-grained wire alike.

Oh, this must be a poem,
sits like a wimple
across my greedy brow;

yet the still carcass
– a mantis dream –
occurs relentless into the
sun-darkened corner.

Oh, this must be a poem.