My gut is telling me I can’t let my usual lingering word nonsense drip Dylan Thomas’ marrow like a dead sparrow. I’m not so corporeal at the core. I can’t finger bones but I’m not above a good spanking.

There is no thing

Everything is polemical, not so corporeal,
There are no things in this poem, only abstractions

If you were hoping to fuse green willow and fingers
Typing roots drinking windows into blackred heaven

There are no things in this poem, only abstractions
Everything is post chemical. We have reached the chimerical

There are things you want to say and things I want said
But there are no jaws to speak of or sinews to extend

Everything in the abstract is crying out half hysterical
There are no things in this poem, only abstractions

There is no life in this poem but at least there is no death
Go anyway you want to read it, rage, amusement, indifference

This poem won’t love you, this poem is not a metaphor
There are no things in this poem, only abstractions.