BY HARRY WAITZMAN
My tongue is tied to my brain through
the back door. I stoop and news pours
through my nose and ears and is lost.
Poetry is not news yet deals with rumors
of the heart, I must learn to rage and spout
through a whale-wide mouth.
I must ignore the givens and obvious,
the fly spots on the mirror. I must grit
my teeth and inhale the alphabet of love.