Poetry in Motion

When I broke open,
words and blood spilled
all over the sidewalk.
There was God and good and Type O
floating in a sticky puddle at the curb.
I scrambled to pick up all those letters,
to cram them back inside
and seal up the gaping tear
before the entire English language
and every word I’d ever
written that mattered
came tumbling out too.
Damn, there went intelligent and
honour and
fire and mass,
architecture
and scripture and chardonnay
and music and song and love,
and even the warm tone of
acoustic guitar
all floating down the gutter,
slipping into the storm drain
on a rivulet of bodily fluid
as passers-by marveled at my
poetry in motion.

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