By Betty Benner

Oh God,

there’s a poem!

I shout to myself

as I read early this morning.

Words that leap from

the page,

sword through to

what lies deep.

Lies,

or tells a truth.

Make the font larger.

Do not let vitelliform

sheath the weapon.

Send the words slicing

or

only

leave them along the way,

dawdling into another consciousness,

like Verlaine

more than one hundred years ago

counseling “….let your poems ride their luck

on the back of the sharp morning air…”

 

Air is never sharper

than in April,

a morning mind

never more ready for stimuli.

Sword or

something gentler,

yield: read, write poetry.