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The bare bones, detailed
in all their beauty -- sometimes
that's what a poem is.

Other times, a poem is the fat
in its lipid, globulous gluttony.
(I'm now reading Belli.)

At other times, all optic
cells, stabbing in clarity.
Some poems ears or fingers.

The poem the pieces of
brain on a dinner plate.
Kidney poems, heart poems.

This is a tongue poem,
a list or description, not
in itself poetic.

I prefer the poem that is
a reflexive muscle
or an over-picked nerve:

     Unemployed.
     Uninsured.
     Uncounted.
     Uncle. Uncle.








3-27-05, this poem appeared in "oyez review" (Volume 33, Winter 2005/2006)