and, for my next trick

I’ll write something that
•  sucks detritus underwater
•  stings the middle of a stone
•  shivers in a cave in a cave
•  stands silent in a library for a thousand years
then, when no one strolls by, falls from the shelf
to shrivel when the lights switch on

enough of that
I thought I’d read everything there is to know of life
in ten thousand poems written just for me
or so it seemed …¬†at least they obeyed some favourite rules, to
•  slip on frosty rooves
•  twinge faintly in an afterlife
•  be true in at least one language
and meaningless in most, and
•  orgiastically transmute the body amorphous
with this song

unanticipated by me for far too long