What a Perfect Poem

Pal, pardon me, but your polished verse
like a bright, burnished mirror just blanks out my vision.
When you take your turn next I trust you'll be terse --
just swerve round and swing into sweeping revision.
No lemon or lime could make my lips purse
when meter meets matter in mad imprecision
like a perfectly patterned poetic hearse.
Let it go to ground and its grave condition
in time

will surpass the power of parasites and mold.
Both parrots and poets can prattle and rhyme
and bang to a beat, if I may be so bold --
but the metronome's music is much more sublime.

 

Copyright © Paul Deae, 2000.
All rights reserved.