The words linger in the mind’s soupy spaces,
floating and alluding, colliding and being repelled,
and the words, ever ebbing and flowing from ideas to blankness to epics
to confusion, to brilliance and to forget-me-not tales of woe
shroud the shoulder as a painfully expensive mink. The cringed grin of storytelling.
‘Why, hello, there!’ I beam.
‘How can I be of service?’
‘Render us not transient,’ they reply, ‘and we will carry out the rest.’
‘Come, sit down. Would you like a drink? A rhythm? A metaphor, perhaps?
Would you be more comfortable in a prose?’
The poem makes it clear that I fuss too much.
It absurdly sits and festers, waving in and out of the spheres
and, in its strangeness, becomes calm and still.
It is too vague, blurring the artistic for the artist…
Work of the wise, the wicked, the witty, or the wastefully wistful?
Emma J. Ware