What I Don’t Know From Poetry

What I Don’t Know From Poetry

What I don’t know from poetry would fill
a book,
would fill a bulldozer
if a bulldozer were a book,
which would be an extremely hard read–even a murder mystery would not be easy to read in bulldozer, the earth in
your ears, the grumble of dirt

and though I could undoubtedly pack
a book in the way that a bulldozer packs
its maw,
would anyone stand
on some hill–perhaps it is just
the other side
of my excavation, elevated only
as compared to my dug pit–
and squint across that chasm for
some ore–I can’t honestly imagine
a nugget, tending as I do
to overly long poems–but some vein of something randomly
broken up–

If there is  such a person,
I bend to them my multi-jointed neck,
I toggle my levered gears,
I stop my tread in my tracks,
I here mound up
my thanks.


Another poem for my outsider prompt on Real Toads, trying (sort of) to make up my deficit in this April National Poetry Month.  I’m not even sure of my number of missed days, but may try to squeeze some extras in!  

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2 Comments on “What I Don’t Know From Poetry”

  1. M Says:

    yes. keep piling!

  2. Kerry Says:

    I could sit and watch you digging all day.

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