This is Not a Poem

The Monkey Climbs a Tree


With words come the square, the block
Of sound, time and space

With words, you fill the square
And we bounce you hither and yon

The block of time and space, ex nihilo
Becomes something you see, touch, hear

Smell if you’re advanced
Taste if you leap beyond the possible


An image does more, because it is
The thing in a sense
A copy of the thing at least
But words can never be

The thing itself, the vessel
Or its roiling contents


Words, like music, are embodied dreams
They float until finally seized
By hungry, desperate vagabonds
Cast off from the one true earth

Cast off, ironically, but still alive
Waiting for a dirt-filled muse to lead
Them halfway home

I wish I could make ten
Make ten before I die

Another time




— Douglas Pinson

This is Not a Poem
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