The poem is sleeping.
You are one of its dreams.
This poem is aflame --
the paper that is
its body curling, blackening,
dissipating. The poem,
like the soul, transferred
to its pure form.
I hate poems abut
poems, the poem one
day is telling the poem
in the mirror over
a sink stained by
constant dripping from
the hot water faucet.
The poem knows the man
who stands in the middle
of it. It goes over him,
around him; when he breathes
in the poem goes in and gets
squeezed by his heart until
it swirls in his fists and he
opens his mouth and sings
the poem out. And the poem
knows its way and goes on
without exactly ever leaving him.
FACT - poetry by glenn ingersoll. avantacular press, 2013. $5, which includes shipping.