The Thing about Poetry

The thing about poetry
is that it must be jeweled, baroque,
a palace where every verb is encrusted with sapphires,
every adjective perfumes the air with musk,
and even the comma arrives draped
in embroidered velvet.
No line can leave the house
without a powdered wig,
a monocle,
and a tiny gilded parasol.

The
    thing
about
       poetry
 is
    that
      it
     scatters
    itself
          like
 Legos
       on
    the
     floor,
  and
     then
           insists
  you
walk
           barefoot
across
 it.

The thing about poetry
is that it turns everything into a metaphor,
until the sky is an open wound,
the bread is regret,
your socks are the ruins of empires,
and your dog
is now a trembling allegory for
God’s silence.

The thing about poetry
is that it never laughs at weddings
but sobs in the frozen food aisle.
It clutches your hand and whispers,
my father is dead, my mother is dead,
my grandfather’s shadow is also dead,
until the milk spoils
and the cashier has to close her lane
out of respect.

The thing about poetry
is that I have become the mountain,
the wind, the cricket, and the entire cosmos.
O weary pilgrim, thou must
eat quinoa rinsed thrice beneath the moon
to grasp my sorrow.